A Compilation of Johnlock Ficlets
by Pippin Faramir Kili Oakentook
Summary: A complilation of Johnlock ficlets I've written from prompts received through tumblr/comments here/AO3. I'm still accepting prompt words, scenarios and songs, so please comment some! A couple have some trigger warnings, but they're marked at the beginning of the ficlet, so just skip it if you have a problem. They're angst, fluff and the bits in between, just general johnlock.
1. Illness

_AN - I've only got one for now, so please _please **please** _send me more prompts! And review! _

_And obviously Sherlock belongs to the BBC and the Arthur Conan Doyle people. _

**John gets ill and Sherlock has to look after him. Sherlock realises his feelings for John because he cares and worries about him. ~ crazylittleblogcalledme**

"Come on, John!" Sherlock yelled, bursting into his friend's bedroom, shirt half buttoned, dark curls perfectly messy. He opened John's draws, pulled out the first almost complete outfit he laid his hands on and threw it at the bed. "We have to go _now_. I'm onto something with this one, and we have to… John?" Sherlock stopped talking suddenly, his eyes roaming over John.

"Go away," John mumbled as he pulled the covers over his head. His throat was burning, his stomach was twisting into knots and his head felt like it had just been a part of one of Sherlock's more explosive experiments.

"You're sick," Sherlock announced bluntly, still staring at John.

"They weren't kidding when they said that you're a genius," John murmured, shifting slightly under the covers. His skin crawled, begging for more heat. "Now go away."

"But… but the case, John," protested Sherlock. He shrugged the shirt up his shoulders, apparently still waiting for John to get up.

"Go yourself," John sighed. He just wanted to be left alone to go back to sleep.

"But I need you on this," Sherlock moaned.

John might have asked about the strangely expressive statement from the cold, uncaring detective, if he hadn't been too sick to care. He mumbled something that sounded vaguely like "Okay, then stay," as sleep drew heavily over him once more.

* * *

John's eyes flickered open. The room was dark and warm. He found his headache had cleared slightly, but his stomach was still stirring and his throat protested painfully when he swallowed. The smell of chicken filled his partiality blocked nose. Confused, he sat up slightly. A bowl of chicken soup sat, steaming slightly on his bedside table. He gazed around, almost falling out of his bed as he saw the tall, dark figure of the consulting detective standing at the end of the bed.

"Jesus, Sherlock," he sighed, lying back down.

"I made soup," Sherlock informed the doctor simply.

"So I see," John mumbled. "Why?"

"Chicken soup helps colds and flu," Sherlock replied. "Well, it's a placebo, mostly, but it still helps. So I made soup."

"Umm… thanks," murmured John. "But I'm not really sure I can eat right now."

Sherlock shrugged, staying where he was at the end of John's bed. "That's alright," he assured John, offering him a small smile.

"I thought you had a case," John commented.

"Oh, I got Lestrade to send me some very specific crime scene shots," Sherlock dismissed. "Case very nearly closed."

"You didn't have to stay," John said, a little confused.

"No, but you said stay," Sherlock shrugged. "And you're sick. Problem?"

"No." John smiled slightly, a strange warmth calming his aching stomach.

Sherlock wandered over to the head of John's bed and sat on the floor, gazing at his head. "Are you better yet?" he sighed. "I'm bored."

* * *

Sherlock remained by John's bedside as he slept, an odd sense of protectiveness stirring in his chest. He was there to make sure John was alright. To make sure he got better. To ensure he ate at least a little and to get him painkillers when called for. He had an offer for a case that appeared mildly interesting, but found himself turning it away. No one was more surprised than Sherlock. He was married to his work. That was the most important thing. Except, as he sat, watching John sleep, he realised it wasn't the most important thing any more. It had shuffled back to make room for something more important. To make room for John. So he sat, occasionally fetching medicine or food or water, desperately trying to fend off the offending disease as it gripped John tighter.

* * *

Sherlock sat beside John's hospital bed, watching him sleep. He'd just kept on getting worse, until Mrs Hudson had insisted they take him to hospital. And now he lay, critically ill from MRSA he'd picked up from work, and Sherlock could do nothing but sit by his side. His hand had slipped into John's hot, clammy one. It lay limp, but Sherlock refused to let go. Cases passed him and he felt a pain in the pit of his stomach as John just got worse. He hated himself for caring so much, not even sure why he was caring. The only thing it did was hurt. And still he sat by John's bedside, holding onto his limp hand. He spoke to him as he lay, dead to the world, talked of the people who came to see him and of old cases John had asked about which Sherlock had never fully explained.

"Why did you do this?" Sherlock asked one day, as John faded still further. "You make me care, you show me it might just help, then you turn around and get this sick. Hurting me isn't very grateful, after all I've done for you. I mean, I'm missing some good cases for you. Get better, would you?" He sighed, shaking his head. "I did say it's a disadvantage, and look where we are now. But I can't help it for some ridiculous reason. I love you, John Watson, so stop being so ridiculously sick." Sherlock swallowed thickly, watching John. His hand was hot and clammy, but, as silence descended once more, John squeezed Sherlock's hand.


	2. Hobbit

_AN - This one's parentlock. Thank you for the prompt! _

**Hobbit ~ anon **

Sherlock sat bold upright, a cold shiver running down his spine. He gave John a shove and climbed out of bed, stumbling blindly to the door. John sat up groggily, brow furrowed. He sighed, glancing around the room, until his ears picked up the sound Sherlock's sensitive ears had found in his sleep. "Shit," he breathed, following Sherlock quickly.

Hamish was crying. It wasn't loud, not an _I want your attention _or _I'm hungry _or _I'm bored _cry, but a whimpering cry that said more plainly than words _I'm afraid. _Sherlock climbed the stairs to John's old bedroom, which their four-year-old son now occupied, John following quickly, stumbling a little over the stairs.

"Hamish?" John called, his stomach stirring. He ran into the room after Sherlock, who was already at their son's bedside. Hamish was sitting up, tears streaming down his face. Sherlock scooped him up, and the boy slipped his arms around his daddy's neck.

"Shh… it's alright," he murmured, stroking the back of his head. "It's alright. You're safe, we're here. It's alright." Hamish sobbed quietly onto Sherlock's shoulder.

John stood at a little distance, watching father and son, marvelling at his husbands unique and completely unexpected parenting skills as he quietened their son. He'd proposed the idea, originally, totally surprising John. He'd never had Sherlock marked down as a father, and had wiped the idea of parenthood off the board when he said 'I do,' but Sherlock showed remarkable skills. He had been afraid, wanting to withdraw his suggestion, but John had become determined. There had been a couple of incidents that were very nearly catastrophic, involving acid and scalpels, but they'd worked it out. Sherlock had become one of the best fathers John had ever known, with his deep voice and his soothing hands, he was able to quieten their son remarkably quickly. He smiled as Hamish stopped crying, still watching Sherlock.

"There we go," Sherlock sighed, kissing Hamish's cheek. "I told you. Just a dream. I've looked around the room, there's nothing here. You're just fine." Hamish relaxed his grip on Sherlock's neck, yawning. "Tiring, isn't it?" Sherlock chuckled. "All that crying? You're alright, Mish." He lowered Hamish back onto the bed and sat beside him, pulling the covers over his son. Hamish still sat up, looking between his dads with scared eyes.

"He's still scared, Sherlock," John commented, coming to the other side of the bed. "Do you think he should come to our room?"

"No," Sherlock replied, stroking Hamish's soft, blond curls. "He's alright, aren't you, Mish?" He offered his son a smile. "How about a story?" he offered, gazing at Hamish's face. He nodded slightly, a small smile ghosting his small lips.

John smiled, pulling open the draw in Hamish's bedside table, taking out the old and rather battered book. "Where did we get to, then?" he chuckled, sitting on one side of Hamish. Sherlock raised his glance to John, his eyes gleaming, as Hamish smiled and reached for the book. "Now, now, Mish," John sighed, shaking his head. "Daddy and I will read it, you just listen and try to go to sleep, okay?" Hamish nodded, resting his head on his daddy's shoulder as Sherlock slipped an arm around him.

"Smaug," he chirped, smiling a little.

"Oh, yes," John nodded, opening the book. "Bilbo just met Smaug, didn't he?"

"Daddy's Smaug," Hamish insisted.

"Yes," Sherlock chuckled. "And papa's Bilbo."

John found the page and held it in front of him, ready to start reading. "Your line, Sherlock," John announced, holding the book out to his husband.

"Smaug," Hamish corrected.

"Sorry - your line then, Smaug," John smirked.

Sherlock chuckled again, looking at the book. "'Well, thief!'" he read, glancing at Hamish, who was already dozing off on his shoulder. "'I smell you and I feel your air. I hear your breath. Come along! Help yourself again! There's plenty to spare!"

"'But Bilbo was not quite so unlearned in dragon-lore as all that, and if Smaug hoped to get him to come nearer so easily he was disappointed," John continued.

Hamish was asleep, head still resting on his daddy's shoulder, by the end of the chapter. Sherlock lowered him, gently as possible, so he was lying down. John stroked his hair gently, then slipped _The Hobbit_ into the draw. He crossed to Sherlock and pressed a small kiss to his lips.

"Love you," he murmured.

"Love you, too," Sherlock replied.

The doctor and the detective glanced once more at their son before leaving. Hamish's dreams remained untroubled by fear for the rest of the night, full instead of dragons and dwarves and one, brave little hobbit.


	3. The Mistake of Caring

_AN - Thank you for the prompt uwu Updated because I thought of a name_

**Sherlock realises/tells John he loves him in the middle of a heated argument ~anon**

**The Mistake of Caring**

"You've got to be joking?" John spluttered, shaking his head.

" You're surprised," Sherlock commented, brow furrowed.

"Oh, that's right," John sighed, "I shouldn't be surprised, should I? You're Sherlock Holmes, you don't care about anything."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned his attention to John's laptop. "What's the point of caring?" he asked irritability.

"Oh, I don't know, because they're _people_, maybe?" John retorted. "Excuse me for caring about the human race."

"You shouldn't," Sherlock replied. "The human race is nothing but a bunch of idiots hating on each other and relying on people who will eventually leave them."

John stared at Sherlock, open mouthed. The crime scene pictures and notes were stuck over the mirror, an old, still sharp knife lying abandoned on the coffee table. Blood still stuck to the tip, dulling the silver blade as the evening sunlight washed into the small flat through the large windows.

Boxes littered the flat, half-packed with John's books and other things. Most would be gone by the next evening, along with John's chair, and John himself would be leaving the following day. John wanted to have some fun on this case, relax, enjoy his last few nights in 221B before he moved in with Mary, but Sherlock was determined to be especially irritable and entirely _Sherlock_. The detective sat in his usual black chair, John's laptop on his knee, while John stood in front of the mantle. He regarded the detective before him with disgust streaked across his face.

"Caring isn't always such a bad thing, you know?" John snapped, folding his arms across his chest.

"No, sometimes it can be mildly helpful," Sherlock shrugged. "But it only ever results in pain, which no amount of help this caring brings can heal."

"How would you know?" John spat, staring at Sherlock.

Sherlock's head whipped up, an expression akin to hurt slashing his perfect composure, just for a moment. "How would I know that caring brings pain?" he asked. His voice was calm and level, but a curl of anger, of pain, twisted beneath it.

"No, it's obvious caring brings hurt," replied John, his eyes blazing. "We both see it in cases every day. I mean how would you know the help caring brings doesn't make up for the hurt it gives? You can't see that. You have to feel it. You're making assumptions, you're just guessing. You don't _know_."

Sherlock swallowed thickly, his eyes fixed on John's face. "You… you have no idea what I do and do not know about this sort of thing," he said, his voice low, almost dangerous.

"Oh, I think I have an idea," John sneered. "You're 'married to your work', you don't care, it's a _mistake_, you say."

"Yes, and I have made mistakes!" yelled Sherlock, glaring at John. "I learn from my mistakes as well as other people's!"

"When have you ever cared about anyone?" John demanded.

"YOU, you idiot!" Sherlock shouted. He shoved John's laptop onto the floor and stepped over it, walking to John and bearing down on him. "I almost _died _for you!"

John shook his head, the disgust twisting through him. "Don't play that card," he hissed. "You _knew _you were going to survive that long before you went to the roof."

"I wasn't talking about _that_," Sherlock yelled. "I was talking about the _pool_. You told me to go, remember, and I _stayed_. There was no case to solve. There was no intellectual lure. There was _you_. I stayed to save _you_."

John's stomach turned over inside him. The anger still coursed through his veins, but there was a twist of guilt pulsing with it. He opened his mouth to offer some retort, but all the words had dried up, leaving him staring at Sherlock with nothing to say.

"And now you're bloody well leaving," Sherlock continued, staring hard at John's face. "Now you're leaving and there's nothing I can do and no amount of time we spent together can fix this so _don't you dare _tell me I don't know that it hurts, John Watson, because I do." He took a deep breath and stepped back a little shaking his head. "I made the mistake of caring because you convinced me that it wasn't that much of a mistake. Then you turned around and proved I was right all along. And the worst part? I still care."

John moistened his lips, eyes burning on Sherlock's white, almost translucent skin. "But… but you don't feel things like other people," John protested, shaking his head. "You've said that a thousand times."

"I still feel things, John," Sherlock spat. "I still know how to feel. I'm just good at covering it up, it's what I do. I learned to control my emotions, my cravings, I learned to enhance the most important parts of my brain. I learned about human behaviour and emotions so I could replicate them when I needed to and to make sure I didn't show any signs of having an unwanted one when I couldn't quite get it to go away. But that doesn't mean I don't feel. I bloody well feel, I know how to be happy and how to be upset. I feel burning hatred in my stomach and I _do _feel love, no matter what I or anyone else says."

John swallowed thickly, listening to the detective's every word. "Love who?" he asked. He didn't know why he was asking it, the words just fell from his mouth before he could stop them. But he didn't take it back. They were too deep to back out now.

But Sherlock said nothing. He just kept his eyes on John's face, not bothering to hide the emotions swimming in them. He was angry and hurt and a million other things all at once and he didn't know what to do, what to say, so he just stared. He knew the answer. He just didn't know how to say it, what to do. Sherlock Holmes suppressed his emotions at all times, he didn't feel a thousand things at once. The last time he had, he'd been so confused he'd ended up in rehab after Mycroft discovered him lying in a pool of his own vomit and blood with a needle in his arm. He was raw, he was open, John had broken his shield with indignant yells and left him standing, fuming and afraid, with nothing to hide behind. There was nothing he could say. So Sherlock said nothing.

John shook his head lightly, for once able to read everything in Sherlock's gleaming eyes. With one look, he'd said a million things that could never truly be said. That were better left unsaid. Sherlock lowered his gaze to the floor, looking entirely vulnerable and afraid and _not Sherlock_. "I need some air," he announced quietly, before sweeping past Sherlock and leaving the flat.


	4. Music

_AN - This one's Post-Reichenbach. Thanks for the prompt, lovely anon. Another one today because I finished it, it's 2am and why the feck not_

**Music ~anon**

John stood before the grave, the rain pissing down around him. The day was grey and dull, the clouds smudging out any spec of blue sky or sun that might be trying to gleam through. It was as if the day was a mistake somebody tried to rub out but didn't quite get the job done. London moved as fast as ever, the people continuing their lives as only people can, the world turned and revolved around the sun as everyone knew despite the fact it didn't matter and no one could stop to notice John Watson standing at a gravestone. John's world lay before him, RIP scratched on its cold surface.

He'd been standing for fifteen minutes after the final mumbled words had trickled from his lips, but he couldn't leave. Not just yet. He didn't live anymore, not really. John Watson survived. He went to work because it gave him some way to while away the menial hours of existence. He ate when Mrs Hudson made him, not because he was hungry. There was no point. He slept because it was a way to go black to the world. Lestrade had taken him to a bar some time ago to try to help him, to try to get him involved in life again, but it had ended in a panic attack on the men's' room floor, and no one had tried to get him a social life since.

Scotland Yard brought him cases, sometimes, and the gleam Sherlock once held in his eye twinkled in his own as he looked over the files. He was nowhere near as good as Sherlock, but he'd learned from him, and he was better than some of the people at Scotland Yard. He'd read Sherlock's cases, studied his methods, and for a while it seemed John Watson had something to do. Something that gave him meaning. Something that let him live. But, one day, he'd happened upon the case file of the Suicide of Sherlock Holmes, and the anxiety had pounced. He hadn't done a proper case since.

Sherlock's violin lay where it had been left the day he left Baker Street for the last time. It rested against the wall by the window, the bow tucked neatly by its side. Sometimes, when John came home, he swore he could hear it. Some echo of the music Sherlock once played, the airs that once filled the flat with the million thoughts that tumbled through the detectives mind, ringing in John's ears for some torturous reason. He'd wait at the bottom of the stairs when he heard it. It would only last for a moment, just long enough for John to hear it, for John's mind to flick him back to the days he'd come home and Sherlock was there, thinking, but by the time John realised the music shouldn't be playing, it was gone. But he'd linger, for a moment, trying to hold onto the memory of him, his ears straining to hear the silent tune, but in vain. And he'd be stabbed once more in the stomach with the knife that had carved the message on his soul that _Sherlock Holmes is dead_.

They'd once been on a murder case that was originally a suicide case, owing to the victim's depression. He'd become an alcoholic after his wife died of cancer. People said his life had become empty. Sherlock had protested _'How can you do that though? How can you let someone become your life so completely that you're empty without them?' _Of course he didn't understand. He was Sherlock. He'd never understand. _'Sometimes… sometimes you don't realise it's happening' _John had said vaguely, shrugging off the question. _'Sometimes you don't realise that this person is everything you have until it's too late.' _Sherlock had scoffed, of course, being Sherlock. He couldn't understand people, not the way everyone else did. _'What does 'empty' even mean, anyway? How can your life be 'empty'?' _he'd asked, pacing around the flat. _'Hopefully you'll never know' _John had sighed. He hadn't realised it. He knew Sherlock had helped him, how could he not? But he hadn't realised he'd fallen victim to the same curse. He hadn't known that Sherlock had become his life. And now all he knew was the emptiness Sherlock could never understand.

Eventually, John gave the grave a respectful nod and turned to leave. He limped away, not looking back, never daring to glance over his shoulder lest he stop there and never make it home. He walked slowly through the rain as the world passed him by, empty taxies not offering him a ride he didn't want, blank people not giving him the attention he didn't need. The rain was still streaking out of the grey sky when he reached the flat. He paused a moment before entering, the water falling from him as much as it was from the canopy of cloud. He closed the door behind him.

Sherlock's violin sang in his ears as he looked up at the stairs. _Good, Sherlock's home. Does he have a case on? _The thoughts flashed through the doctor's broken mind before he realised himself. But he remained at the bottom of the stairs, trying to hold onto the ghost of the music like water in his cupped hands. But it trickled through his fingers and was gone before it was even truly there. John swallowed thickly, and began to walk slowly towards the stairs, the oppressive silence the music left behind weighing heavily on his soul. He looked up to the flat, not entirely ready to go back, to survive in the silence and the ghost of what he was.

Then the music started again.


	5. Catlock

_AN - Did this one in first person because of reasons. As always, thank you for the prompt. Haven't done Catlock before, but here goes, and it's quite short, sorry…_

**Catlock - balls of yarn and scarves ~anon**

He was sitting on the bookshelf, tail flicking slightly as he gazed down as me. His sleek black fur shone slightly silver in the moonlight that slanted from the long windows into the flat. I stood, staring at him as he sat there thinking, the way only a cat can do, before remembering myself and walking full into the flat, dumping the shopping on the table. Evidently my Sherlock had come to some sort of decision as he got up, stretched his cat stretch and jumped from the bookcase to the floor. I smiled at him as he wandered over and rubbed affectionately against my leg. But, Sherlock being Sherlock, I knew he was only being friendly because he wanted something. _Manipulative sod_,I thought, chuckling a little despite myself as I began to unload the shopping. It didn't matter that he was only being nice for his own personal gain - he was being nice, so I decided to revel in it.

I poured him the milk he wanted after a suitable amount of bunting had ensued, and went over to my chair. I picked up the paper and began to read, making the most of the few moments of silence and peace I had while Sherlock was otherwise engaged.

I heard the padding of his paws as he passed my chair and glanced up over the paper. He didn't look at me as he disappeared under his black leather chair. Some people find it odd that my cat has his own chair. Technically, it's my chair. I just call it his chair because he took a liking to it. He sleeps on it - or at the end of my bed - curled up in his blue scarf, the scarf he was snuggled up in when I found him and his brother - who now belongs to Greg - in the old cardboard box that rainy day. Sherlock has blossomed into a wonderful, clever, if slightly annoying black beauty of a cat. Anyway, Sherlock disappeared under his chair, and I went back to my paper.

I got suspicious after about ten minutes. Sherlock often went quiet for long periods, sitting extraordinary still on his chair or the sofa or the bookshelf or occasionally on top of the fridge. But he was always in sight. I put the paper down and was about to go and investigate when the little black thing pranced out, a strand of purple wool trailing from his mouth and disappearing behind his chair. I was confused at first. Sherlock just strutted forward and jumped up onto the coffee table. I thought for a moment, then my stomach jolted. Mrs Hudson's knitting. She was making a jumper for her niece's daughter for her second birthday, and she'd left it here because they were staying over. And Sherlock was sitting on our coffee table, wool dangling from his mouth, looking awfully proud of himself. I ran a hand through my hair and jumped to my feet, walking, a little hesitantly, to see the mess that had been created behind his chair.

It was a mass of blue and purple wool. The jumper itself appeared untouched - I thanked my lucky star for that - but the wool was everywhere. Sherlock just waltzed right back over, wool still in his mouth, then pounced on a blue strand. I stood there and stared. There was something oddly hypnotic in the way he chased it, pulling at it with his claws and biting it. I chuckled a little, watching him. He danced across the mess of wool after the end of a thread that had moved ever so slightly from him tugging one end of it. For a clever cat, he was clueless about some things.

I remembered myself after a minute and quickly grabbed him. He mewed at me and pawed my face - luckily without claws - wanting to go back and play with his wool. I dumped him in his chair and tried to tidy it up. Nothing was damaged, but it took a while to sort it all out. Eventually, I got it done, and took the basket into my bedroom. Sherlock wasn't to go in there until it was finished. I expected him to protest to what I was doing, or at least get in the way, but he didn't. He'd gone quiet again, and that was okay with me. I walked back into the room and gazed at the chair. There he was, my little Sherlock, curled up in his old blue scarf, fast asleep.


	6. I Didn't Mean to Say it Out Loud

_AN - I know it's been a couple of days, but things just weren't working. Got it now though. Playing with present tense and a different sort of style. I've been working on spoken word poetry a little, and sometimes elements of that come into other work I do. The second Sherlock paragraph is especially that sort of thing. I named it because the name came to me. Thanks for the prompt uwu_

**Could you write something where John accidentally spills his feelings to Sherlock without realizing what he did? ~anon**

**I Didn't Mean to Say it Out Loud**

Sherlock stands by the window, gazing out onto moonlit Baker Street, listening to the sounds of the sleepless city moving around him. Taxis sweep along the road, Mrs Hudson gets a glass of water downstairs, the world hums as it spins mindlessly through space. The world is waiting for the sun to rise over the tallest buildings in London, to remind the party-goers that it's time for bed and the market-workers that it's time to get up and the insomniacs that they've made it through another night. And Sherlock continues listening, his genius mind pouring over a million thoughts as he stands.

_The heat is the first thing. The white heat. Then pain exploding in his shoulder. Blood stains the sand. The sun burns the soldiers as they crawl like ants through the hazy world, fighting for God knows what. There's blood on his face. _Please, God, let me live.

John stirs upstairs, and Sherlock turns from the window. The nightmares still haunt him, Sherlock knows, even when nobody else can. The sand and the sun, the pain of the bullet, and sometimes, on bad days, he still limps just a little even though he knows it's all in his head, but just because it's all in his head doesn't mean it's not there. Sometimes the memories are too close for comfort and there are times, times in the middle of the night when John sleeps and Sherlock stands and the world keeps on turning when the darkness draws closer and Sherlock becomes dust and everything else melts away until nothing remains, nothing but white hot pain ripping through his skin and the words whispering through his mind _Please, God, let me live_, because he had no one else to think of. In his dying moments, John Watson had no one to turn his mind to, so he prayed for the chance that, one day, he might. Sherlock walks across to his chair and picks up his violin and bow.

_He's falling. He's falling fast and the world blurs at the edges. He said 'goodbye'. The ground is cold and hard. Stumbling forward. He's surrounded by people, people trying to tell if the stranger is really gone. Blood stains the ground. Too many people, too thick, to slow and too fast. There's blood on his face. _He's my friend, let me through.

Sherlock brings the bow to the strings and fills the flat with the melancholy air of _Partita No. 2_. John prefers Bach to anything else. The music drifts around, silencing the rest of the world. The moonlight still reaches through the windows, running her long fingers through Sherlock's hair and the strings of the violin he plays. The bow slides across the strings, casting a spell over those who care to hear. The clock is silent as it strikes the hour. The world is dimmed. There is nothing but the detective and his music, and John Watson as he sleeps, his dreams disturbed by the plague of the past. The nightmares will always haunt him. There will always be times in the middle of the night when he wakes, drenched in cold sweat, blooded faces flashing across his mind's eye. But, while there will always be nightmares, there will always be Bach.

"Sherlock!" John sits bolt upright, his skin cold and clammy, blood and pain and the memories pulsing through him. He swallows thickly, his mind dripping back down to reality, to the still flat in Baker Street at three in the morning, and the music reaches his ears. A small smile ghosts his lips and lights his eyes. He leans back against the headboard, his mind settling into wakefulness, his limbs relaxing as the music crawls under his skin. The world begins to fall once more into peace.

The name echoes through his ears as the music picks up pace. The sound of his name rippling through his skin and beating in his veins, the desperation of the call, the fear Sherlock can almost see lighting his deep, sea-blue eyes. The phrase draws to a close and Sherlock lowers the bow, glancing at the stairs. His footfall is silent, his violin is still clasped, mute, in his hand, as he climbs the stairs to John's bedroom. The world begins to fall easily back into motion, the taxies once more slipping past and the people walking through their lives without listening to their own footsteps. The door creaks slightly as it opens, and the first thing that Sherlock's all-seeing eyes settle on is the body of John Watson lying, still and silent, on his bed.

"You called?" The words vibrate in John's bones.

"Sorry… I… umm…" John begins, looking down at the bed.

"Should I go?"

"No, don't." He says it before he can stop himself, but he knows better than to take it back.

Sherlock swallows thickly, gazing at John, the moonlight casting perfect shadows across his ghost-white face as he steps further into the bedroom. "You want me to stay?" he checks, his eyes fixed on John's face.

"If you like."

Silence descends once more, save the cars outside and the breathing of the two men and the general hum of the world in motion.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asks as he steps a little closer to the bed.

"Yes. I just… I'm okay now," John replies, offering Sherlock a small smile.

Sherlock returns the smile. "Right."

John swallows thickly, glancing at the violin in Sherlock's hand. "Thank you. For playing."

Sherlock raises the violin and turns his gaze to it. "Oh… Yes. Well, _Partita No. 2_."

"It's one of my favourites," John smiles.

"I know."

"Thank you."

Sherlock swallows thickly, shifting where he stands. "Should I leave you to sleep?" he asks, stepping back a little.

"I'm awake now," John protests.

"I know, but you might want to sleep more."

"I'm not tired."

"But you want me to stay?"

"As long as you're okay staying."

"I can stay."

"Come sit down."

"On the bed?"

"Yes."

Sherlock walks obligingly to the bed where John lies and sits on the edge of it, casting his eyes to the wooden floorboards beneath his feet.

"Lie back, if you like," John suggests, a soft chuckle at the back of his throat.

"Do you want me to?" Sherlock clarifies, a little uncomfortable. He's only ever been in John's room, since he's been living here, to tell him to get up for a case or to get something. And never in the middle of the night.

"I want you to relax," John says, smiling at Sherlock.

There's another pause. Sherlock looks around the room, before shrugging, deciding to simply let the situation play out how it might. He lays the violin down at the end of the bed and sits against the headboard by John's side. Silence falls once more. "Why am I here?" Sherlock asks after a moment.

"I don't know," John admits, shrugging slightly.

"Because you called," Sherlock says, answering his own question.

"I always call for you," John remarks. "Normally you don't hear me."

Sherlock's brow furrows. "Do you normally call with the intention of my hearing?"

"No," John replies. "I just say your name."

"Why?"

John considers for a moment. The darkness creeps around him, settling in the corners of the room and the shadows he casts from the moonlight. He'd never really thought about it before. "I don't know," he answers. "Because that's the word that normally comes to me. You've changed my life in so many ways, I end up yelling for you."

"I've changed your life?" Sherlock echoes.

"You bloody saved me, Sherlock," John replies, gazing up at the man by his side.

"From what?"

"I don't know. And I don't care to find out."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"Doing the same for me."

"I'm glad I was able to."

Sherlock looks over to John, his brow furrowed. "Why are we talking like this? This doesn't normally happen."

"It's the middle of the night, Sherlock," John smiles, gazing into Sherlock's incredible eyes. "It's what people do at night. Something happens and they start talking about things that can't seem to stand the light of day."

"Do people do this a lot?" Sherlock asks, still a little confused.

"It's reasonably normal," John answers.

"We don't normally do this."

"We're not normal."

"Oh."

They each look away briefly, the world moving serenely around them, before their eyes meet. Both dissolve into senseless giggles, breaking the serious stillness that had descended.

"Is this normal as well?" Sherlock chuckles, turning his gaze back to John.

"What?" John laughs. "Feeling light-headed and giggly pretty much spontaneously?"

"Yes," Sherlock replies, his laughter subsiding. "Is that another normal middle of the night event?"

"I think that's normal for us at any given moment," John remarks.

Sherlock laughs again. "Yes, it does appear to be." After a short while, doctor and detective regain their composure, the laughter settling back into the serenity of the night.

"What _are_ other middle of the night occurrences?" Sherlock asks, gazing over at John.

"Well," John sighs, considering. "I suppose important decisions that really shouldn't be made until daylight. I've heard authors get their best ideas in the middle of the night and then lose them because they haven't got writing equipment on hand or they're too tired to write."

"That's a bit stupid," Sherlock remarks, smirking a little.

"Yes," John agrees, sharing the smirk. "But then, the ones who do have writing equipment on hand or who do end up writing the entire thing in the middle of the night are often brilliant."

"Who'd write a book in the middle of the night?"

"Well, Saul Bellow did say 'You never have to change anything you got up in the night to write.'"

"Did he?"

"Yes. I suppose the same could be said for you. You never go wrong in your midnight deductions. Or violin playing."

"Thank you?"

"Yes, it was a compliment."

Sherlock sighs, turning the fresh information over in his mind. "What else?"

"Well, I suppose big, dramatic declarations or revelations that are either immediately withdrawn or completely disregarded, and which are followed by either regret and self-hatred or infinite joy," John suggests.

"Like what?"

"Like 'Sherlock Holmes, I love you.'"

"Right."

Quiet swallows up the last words, thoughts buzzing round the stillness of the room like flies.

"Do you?" Sherlock asks.

"Do I what?" John replies, fighting back a yawn.

"Love me?"

John considers again, apparently only just realising what he'd said. "Umm… yes. Yes, I guess I do."

"You guess?" Sherlock echoes.

"Hmm. I hadn't really considered it properly."

"But you had considered it?"

"That's another thing that happens in the middle of the night."

"What?"

"Overthinking."

"But you've never thought of it during the day?"

"I have. Once or twice. When you're being especially brilliant."

"With my deductions?"

"Sometimes. But times when you make me coffee for no reason or when you wake up in the morning and your hair's all messy and I just think you look so incredibly normal and I realise that as much as I love your brilliant mind, I love you when you're just being alive."

The world continues moving for a moment.

"I don't expect you to love me," John says, looking down at the bed sheets. "I mean, you're married to your work and all."

"I wouldn't know," Sherlock remarks quietly, his gaze turning to the window. "I've never loved anyone before."

"Neither have I," John shrugs. "Not really."

"How can you tell you love me, then?"

"I don't know. It's just… a feeling. Sometimes you just sort of know." He swallows thickly, his eyes roaming over Sherlock's face. "I guess it's kind of when the other person's safety and happiness is more important to you than your own."

Sherlock looks down at John's face. "Anything else?"

"When you say it and it doesn't feel like a lie in your mouth."

"John?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"Oh?"

Sherlock considers, moistening his lips. "Yes. Yes, I believe I do."

John's eyes light up brighter than the moon as it dances through the gap between his curtains. Sherlock meets his gaze, and finds himself drowning in those sea-blue eyes.

"Is this one of those important decisions that are actually better made in the light of day?" he asks hesitantly.

"No," John replies, his voice just about reaching Sherlock's sensitive ears. "No, I believe this is one of those big, dramatic revelations that can either end in regret and self-hatred, or-"

"Infinite joy," Sherlock breathes. John nods minutely, gazing into Sherlock's incredible eyes, those eyes that he's sure contain hidden galaxies and long-lost stars. Sherlock moves forward and presses a kiss to John's lips, just for a moment, before pulling away and focusing on his eyes again.

"Tired?" he whispers.

"A little."

"How do you know this isn't one of those occasions when you realise what a huge mistake you made the next day and wish you could take it all back?"

"I love you, Sherlock, that isn't going to change because of a little daylight," John chuckles.

"Good."

"Yes."

"I love you, too, by the way."

John smiles at Sherlock, the light dancing in his eyes.

"You should sleep," Sherlock breathes.

"Okay."

Sherlock slips off the bed and stands up, taking the violin in his hands, his eyes still on John as he lies down. He leaves the room and wanders back into the living room, casting his eye over the crime scene pictures for a moment without interest. He raises the violin to his shoulder again, and continues to play _Partita No. 2_.


	7. Dressing Gown

_AN - Another Post-Reichenbach one because I'm feeling quite good at the moment and I didn't sleep last night and for some bizarre reason that's coming out through Reichenbach feels. Playing with present tense. Thanks for the prompt. I've got quite a few prompts from tumblr and a couple from the comments that I have yet to write, so if you send me a prompt please be patient! I'm trying to do them in order of receiving them as much as possible, but it might take a while for me to get to yours. Thank you for all the prompts (admittedly, mostly through tumblr), and I'm still accepting them! _

**Dressing gown ~anon**

John lies in bed, strains of muted sunlight trying to slip into the room through the gap in the curtains. The rain spits against the window like the tear drops that stain John's cheeks. Sounds are muted. Light is dimmed. The world continues to spin through space because that's what everyone says it does. But everyone doesn't matter. Not today. John curls up a little tighter, keeping his eyes closed with the vain chance in his mind that, maybe, if he doesn't open his eyes, the day might just go away. He won't be waking up alone in a world that means nothing because _he's _not there. But the clock keeps ticking, time keeps passing, the world keeps turning. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.

Sherlock's bed doesn't really smell of him anymore. Nothing does. Everything in the flat wastes away as it loses its last grip on the beautiful creature that was Sherlock Holmes. John lies in Sherlock's dressing gown, gripping it tightly without realising he's doing so. The silence surrounds him, crawling into his body, screaming louder than any noise ever could that Sherlock Holmes is dead and gone. That there will be no more gunshots in the wall and no more violin playing in the middle of the night. He won't awake from his nightmares to be soothed back to sleep by Sherlock's eloquent fingers dancing across the stings in one of Bach's melodies. There are no more experiments or entails in the fridge, no more getting up at three in the morning because _the case, John! _Never again will John find himself having an argument with Sherlock because he doesn't care. The fighting is gone. The world is at peace. And poppies are scattered across the silent battlefield.

The mornings were the nicest. When the day hadn't quite gotten started yet. John would get up, some days he'd have a shower, and he'd make breakfast and tea for both Sherlock and himself. Then Sherlock would come in, his clothes still crumped and sleep clinging to his hair, just as breakfast hit the table. Tea, it was always tea in the morning. Coffee later, when he was working and his mind really needed a kick to work faster. (John remains convinced that Sherlock never really liked coffee, he only drank it because that's what grown-ups do.) But, in the mornings, the work wasn't the most important thing. Just for an hour, Sherlock could sit and read the paper and have a cup of tea and be so intoxicatingly _normal_. And things were fine. He'd still make sparks with that brilliant mind, but he wasn't jumping up and running off to the other side of London for some case. He was just being there, incredibly alive and real, being Sherlock but being normal. John would catch him in these moments, when Sherlock's mind was relatively peaceful and happy to be so, when he was dressed in some old t-shirt and trousers that served as pyjamas with one of his dressing gowns draped over him, when they were just Sherlock and John.

That's what John misses most. Just Sherlock. Crumpled and messy with bed-hair and a mug of tea in his hand. And the silence reminds him that he will never see Sherlock's face again. Never hear his mumbled 'Morning.' Never see his half-hidden, brighter-than-the-sun smile. The little things are the things John misses the most. The things only he saw, so only he can miss. And it's like there's a secret part of Sherlock that was made especially for John, like Sherlock had taken his half-finished soul and given it to John to create something that only he could see.

Time passes and the world spins. John has a job, something menial for him to while away his existence with while he goes on surviving because he can't live anymore. The rain slips down the window as John's tears drip down his cheeks. The morning draws on restlessly, the silence echoing around the flat, before John finally pulls himself out of bed, Sherlock's dressing gown still draped over his shoulders, and goes to make himself a cup of tea. It was always tea in the mornings.

John's hand is shaking slightly as he struggles with the key. He'd survived another day, seen another load of patients, painting on the smile with the runny ink that washed away in the rain. He stumbles into the flat, shutting the door behind him. The day is fading and sun is sinking, but no one can see that because the clouds veil the light and cast their relentless tears onto London. John runs a hand through his damp hair as the kettle boils, the raindrops crawling under his skin. Time still passes and the world still turns as John Watson pours the boiling water into a mug and makes his tea. Sherlock didn't like coffee, not really.

* * *

The telly blurs, the actors mapping out their pre-written stories as John sits, curled up in his chair, Sherlock's scarf around his neck. The dressing gown is hung up in the bedroom. He wears an old t-shirt and trousers, like Sherlock used to, and the scarf for warmth and comfort. The night draws closer and John's bleary mind begins to fade away from consciousness once more, the telly still retelling him the story of _A Good Man Goes to War_. He's well practiced in this. Watching repeats of _Doctor Who_ and falling asleep in his chair, to wake up, shivering, the nightmares flashing through his mind's eye, early in the morning to stumble back into Sherlock's bedroom and sleep the rest of the night away. Get up the next day, make tea, go to work. See patients. Go to the graveyard. Come home. Make tea. Change clothes. Pick at some food. Watch crap telly. Fall asleep in his chair. The wheel turns. Nothing is ever new.

* * *

John is shivering, still trapped by sleep, curled up in his chair. The rain relentlessly pounds the windows. Memories flash through the doctor's mind; the sand, the pain, the blood. _Afghanistan or Iraq? _The cabbie and the pills. The threat of _Deadman_. The riddles and the game. _Sherlock, run. _The woman. The hound. _I don't have friends. I've just got one. _The fall. _Goodbye, John. _John shakes harder, cold sweat crawling over his skin as the images pass before his mind. The rain hammers on the windows. The telly tells him about what's happening in the meaningless world. The clock ticks. The night draws on. John curls up tighter, trying to fight off the memories, trying to escape, just for a little while, into blackness.

The telly turns off. John is lifted, carefully and quietly. He unconsciously slips his arms around the figure's neck, burying his face in his chest. The dressing gown is draped over his shoulders and he's lain down on the bed. A hand strays through his still slightly damp, sandy hair. The softest of kisses is placed on his temple. The figure watches for a while, ensuring his dreams remain, if only for a short while, untroubled by fear. He rises and takes his leave, and John remains curled up in Sherlock's bed, gripping the dressing gown without realising he's doing so.

The sun slips through the gap in the curtains with ease. The rain has cleared and the sun promises hope. John curls up a little tighter, thinking over last night. He didn't wake. He fell asleep watching _Doctor Who_, that he knew, but he also knew he didn't get up and move to bed. He doesn't remember being awakened by the nightmares. But he is lying in Sherlock's bed, wearing Sherlock's dressing gown. He wasn't wearing it before. And, normally, he takes the scarf off when he moves to the bedroom. He sits up, the sunlight crossing his slightly tanned face. A mug of tea sits, steaming, on the bedside table, a note leaning against it. John takes it up, his fingers shaking slightly, and opens it.

_See you soon. For now, enjoy your tea. It was always tea in the mornings. -SH _


	8. Blushing, John?

_AN - Thank you again for prompts! I just thought I'd put it here that I never expected to receive any, let alone the amount I have. And thank you for your comments, they really pick me up and I'm so glad you like my ficlets. I have eleven more to write at the moment, and I'm trying to post them roughly in the order I get them, unless I get a lot of words at one point, in which case I post them in between other prompts so people aren't waiting too long. All the ficlets I've done so far are _here_, and I will update this as I write more. If you have a prompt, please send it to me, and I _will _get around to writing it. Thanks again, you're all lovely uwu_

_Here's a little bit of fluff for you, thank you xSommerRegen for reviewing and providing me with something I simply couldn't make angsty (everything I touch seems to turn to angst). _

**Blushing, John? ~** **xSommerRegen**

Sherlock lay across the sofa, his feet on John's lap. The doctor sipped his tea, vaguely watching _Mock the Week_. The heavy curtains were drawn, and the flat was warm and relatively quiet. The crime scene pictures were stuck up on the mirror with notes and pictures of evidence and the file was lying open on the coffee table. Sherlock's fingers were brought up to his lips in his usual prayer-style position that held a sign up to anyone who cared to see that read _Do not disturb; genius at work_. John looked across at the beautiful, insanely intelligent man next to him, a smile beginning to dance around his lips. He chuckled slightly and took another sip of tea.

"What?" Sherlock asked, his head flicking up, brow furrowed.

John chuckled again. "You," he grinned, running a finger along Sherlock's foot.

"What about me?" Sherlock insisted as he sat up a little.

John smiled fondly at his detective. "You being all clever," John replied. "With your thinking pose and your feet and your genius mind."

The smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "Why is that something to laugh at?" he inquired, pulling his feet from John's lap and tucking his legs under him, facing John.

"I'm laughing at the strange and entirely perfect circumstance I've found myself in," John explained, turning to face Sherlock a little more. "I'm laughing because I'm so insanely happy that I've found myself in the, what I once thought impossible, situation of being with you."

Sherlock fought back the smile, raising his eyebrows slightly. "Oh really?" he asked, shuffling forward slightly.

"Yes," John replied. Sherlock let the smile claim his mouth as he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to John's lips. John rested a hand on Sherlock's face, pulling him a little closer, his fingers twirling a little through Sherlock's dark curls. He smiled, pulling away slightly and pressing their foreheads together. "You're wonderful, you know that?"

Sherlock chuckled. "You think?"

"I know." John pressed another soft kiss to Sherlock's lips. "Love you."

"Love you too."

John smiled at Sherlock for a moment before turning his eyes back to the telly. Sherlock lay back down again, his head on John's lap. He was wearing his red silk dressing gown over a white t-shirt and red velvet trousers, and was generally looking very cosy. John's hand automatically went to Sherlock's head, his fingers straying through the curls. Sherlock lay with his eyes closed, half buried in thought. The thoughts silently flashed around the room, moving too fast for John to see them, but just slow enough so that he could take note of the absolute genius they stored. He slipped a hand under Sherlock's head to his neck, the other hand lifting the detective's chin, and raised the detective's head to his own, pressing their lips together. Sherlock's eyes remained closed, letting John kiss him. The day was warm and comfortable and slow. John smiled as he lowered Sherlock's head, his hand straying through his detective's hair once more.

The telly continued blaring rubbish at them as Sherlock lay thinking. After some time John turned it off, his gaze travelling back to the detective. "Tea?"

Sherlock opened his eyes, smiling a little. "Love some." He lifted his head and John got up. He cast a glance over his shoulder as he wandered into the kitchen, offering his detective a smile.

"Any more thoughts on the case?" he asked as he filled up the kettle and flicked it on.

"A few. Nothing that important," Sherlock replied, turning onto his stomach to look at John better.

"That's okay." John poured the boiling water over the teabags and stirred them.

"I know. Case isn't that pressing," the detective shrugged.

"Lestrade thinks it is," John pointed out.

"Letstrade's an idiot," Sherlock sighed.

"Everyone's an idiot to you," the doctor chuckled, turning and leaning against the counter. Sherlock smirked a little. After a couple of minutes, John took the teabags out of the mugs and stirred in the milk, before coming back over to the sofa.

"Here we go," he sighed as he sat down.

Sherlock sat up and took his mug. "Thanks," he murmured, taking a sip.

John smiled in response as he sipped his own tea. Sherlock set his mug down on the coffee table, shuffled up to John and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. John's smile grew. He turned his head and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's soft, full lips, before sipping his tea again. Sherlock sighed and took up his own mug again, his gaze fixed on John. "You okay?" John asked at length.

"Shouldn't I be?" Sherlock asked, drinking the last few drops of tea in his mug.

"No," John replied, shrugging slightly. "I just wondered."

"I'm fine."

"Good." John set down his mug, his hand straying to Sherlock's. Sherlock smiled a little, moving to John again and pressing a gentle kiss to his temple. John turned his head and Sherlock pressed soft, sweet kisses to his John's lips. John slipped his arms around Sherlock's waist, smiling against his lips, pulling the detective a little closer. "You really are wonderful," he murmured between kisses.

"So are you," Sherlock replied as he leaned forward to John, pushing him back against the sofa. John hummed happily, pulling Sherlock on top of him as he lay back. He brought his legs onto the sofa, Sherlock slitting perfectly between them as he kissed his doctor. "You… are absolutely… wonderful," Sherlock mumbled, kissing John's lips and cheeks and chin, his warm, soft lips curved into a smile. "I love you."

"I love you, too," John hummed. Sherlock moved his lips to press more sweet kisses to John's slightly tanned neck. John sighed contentedly, a sudden drowsiness stealing over him. Sherlock brought his lips back to John's and gave him a long, gentle kiss. John opened his eyes and gazed at Sherlock, exploring his every feature before he found himself lost in Sherlock's beautiful, indescribable eyes. Sherlock held his gaze for a long moment, his fingers toying with the hem of John's jumper. The only light was that of the dim lamp on the other side of the room, which cast long shadows across Sherlock's perfectly formed face. John pulled a hand up to Sherlock's head and ran his fingers through his soft, dark curls. Sherlock laid his head down against John, one hand on his chest, the other still fingering the hem of his cable knit jumper. John's eyes slipped closed as he lay, entwined with Sherlock, and perfectly happy.

* * *

Sherlock's eyes flickered open. The soft, dim light of morning filtered through the gap in the curtains, and the lamp still cast its light upon the pair. John lay with his eyes closed, breathing deeply. Sherlock smiled, gazing at his John, taking in every minute detail of the sleeping figure, before leaning up and pressing the softest of kisses to his cheek. He could have sworn he saw a smile play about the corners of his lips.

Sherlock eased himself out of John's arms, leaving the doctor to sleep for a few minutes longer as he went to the kitchen to make two cups of tea. As it was brewing, he wandered back into the living room and sat on the coffee table, his attention completely fixed on his wonderful John as he lay sleeping on the sofa. Neither had stirred that night, and John still lay, serene and quiet, lost in his land of dreams and darkness. No nightmares had come that night. Sherlock smiled a little at the thought, and pulled himself up to finish the teas. He was just pouring in the milk when he felt a pair of arms slip around his waist.

"Morning," John murmured, pressing a small kiss to Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock turned and brought his lips to John's, kissing him gently. "Good morning." The exchanged slightly sleepy smiles, then Sherlock took up the mugs and placed one in John's hand. "Tea."

"So it is," John noted, looking down at his mug. Sherlock sighed and took a sip of his own tea. There was a soft buzzing, and John dug his phone out of his pocket. "Lestrade," he announced after a moment. "They're coming over in an hour."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, sighing as he slipped his free arm around John's waist.

"Fake drugs bust," John replied, the annoyance rather obvious in his voice. "Something about you withholding evidence ag-"

"No, I meant why must they be so idiotic?" Sherlock chuckled, gazing down at John.

The doctor smiled and pressed another kiss to Sherlock's lips. "I'm going to go have a shower." He finished his tea and set the mug down, walking towards the bathroom. Sherlock sighed again as he wandered over to the windows. He pulled open the curtains and the flat was flooded with the shine of the summer morning. Sherlock gazed out onto London and took another sip of tea.

* * *

"It's not that big of a deal," Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes a little.

"Withholding evidence again, Sherlock," Lestrade replied, raising his eyebrows. "You can't keep going off on your own."

"It was one small piece that you lot missed," retorted Sherlock. "You didn't think it was of importance, you didn't really mind that I had it."

"That was before we found out it was a key piece of evidence."

"I found out it was a key piece of evidence and texted you."

"You should have given it to us."

"So you're pulling a drugs bust on me again?" Sherlock spat, glaring at Lestrade. John folded his arms across his chest, his lips pressed together to stop him from yelling at them all to bloody well get out of their flat. It was meant to be a reasonably relaxed weekend. He rolled his eyes at himself – he should have learned by now that that is almost an impossibility.

"Yes," Lestrade answered simply, shrugging. "Where is it?"

"Where's what?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"The bloody watch, Sherlock," Lestrade replied, rubbing his forehead tiredly. "Where did you put the watch?"

Sherlock just shrugged, turning to John. John sighed and raised his eyebrows at his detective – he was very annoying sometimes, but in such a way that it was impossible for John not to love him for it.

"Oo-oo!" Mrs Hudson appeared at the door, knocking slightly before opening it. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene before her. "What's all this?" she asked, hovering in the doorway.

"Drugs bust," Anderson replied as he emptied the contents of one of the kitchen cupboards. He had to admit he was slightly disappointed that he didn't find any body parts in there.

"Here? Sherlock, you'll have to explain what's going on here," she sighed, shaking her head.

"They're just searching for something Sherlock has, Mrs Hudson," John replied, offering her a warm smile.

Mrs Hudson turned her gaze to John, confusion creasing her forehead. "He said it's a drugs bust."

"No, it's not drugs," John reassured her. "They're just trying to get Sherlock to find what they need for them." Mrs Hudson nodded, her eyes flicking to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, dear, is your neck okay today?" she asked.

"Yes, why shouldn't it be?" Sherlock replied, his attention now fixed on his landlady.

"I was just thinking last night," she explained, glancing between John and Sherlock. "You looked comfortable enough, but when I used to do that, my neck got awfully stiff."

"Do what?" Anderson asked, coming out of the kitchen with a jar of jam in one hand.

John gaped at Mrs Hudson. "How did you-?"

"Oh, I just popped in last night," she smiled, glancing around the flat before resting her gaze on the rather nervous John. "Just to see if you were still up, or if those fireworks had woken you."

"Sorry, what were they doing?" Sally Donovan cut in, her eyes gleaming with mischief, a grin forming on her mouth.

Mrs Hudson turned her attention to Donovan, ignoring John's mumbled protests. "It was nothing, really," she sighed, smiling. "They were just… comfortably wrapped up in each other."

"They were _what_?" Anderson exclaimed, the grin crawling over his own face.

"They were only sleeping," Mrs Hudson shrugged, glancing around at the clearly enticed group of officers. "It was sweet."

"What, like… cuddling?" Lestrade asked.

"Lestrade!" John hissed, glaring at the detective inspector. John's cheeks were flaming and he turned his eyes to the floor.

"Yes, I guess so," Mrs Hudson replied. "I don't see why there's a big fuss about it."

Sherlock eyed everyone assembled, his gaze resting on John for a little while longer than everyone else, then he walked over to the bookshelf, pulled out a volume about beekeeping and took out the watch which had been hidden behind it. "This what you were looking for?" he asked, his voice teasing.

"Yes," Lestrade sighed, taking it and putting it in an evidence bag. "Right. Everyone clear out, we have what we need." A little reluctantly, the group began to file out of the flat, Anderson and Donovan still with wide grins branded on their faces. Lestrade left last, pausing in the doorway to whisper to Mrs Hudson "Did you happen to get a snap of that?" She winked at him, still smiling, and he left looking even happier than Anderson and Donovan.

"I hope I didn't embarrass you," Mrs Hudson sighed, the thought that she might apparently just occurring to her.

Sherlock smiled at her. "No, it's fine," he replied, his gaze turning to the still fuming John. Mrs Hudson glanced at him and disappeared without another word. Sherlock walked behind John and slipped his arms around the shorter man's waist, a grin to match Lestrade's beginning to creep across his face. "Are you… _blushing_, John?" he teased. John said nothing, his eyes still fixed on the floor. Sherlock dipped down and pressed a kiss to John's fiery cheek. "Problem?"

John reluctantly smiled, and turned around into the detective's embrace. "No problem at all," he sighed, leaning up and kissing Sherlock's lips.

"Good," Sherlock smiled. "Although you do look so cute when you blush."

John glared at Sherlock, but said nothing. Instead he slipped his arms around the detective's white neck and they shared soft, sweet kisses, relaxing into the now peaceful Sunday afternoon.

_Send me Johnlock prompt word, scenarios OR SONGS NOW I WILL LISTEN TO THE SONG AND WRITE SOMETHING FROM IT and I will write a ficlet_


	9. The Snow Keeps Falling

_AN - Thanks for the prompt. I am trying to improve my fluff skills, so here's another bit of fluff for you. It's ridiculously hot, at least it is where I am, so I don't know what I'm doing writing a winter one. Never mind. It's quarter past three in the morning and fluff has started working now, so here it is. I don't know how good it really is because I haven't slept properly in a while, but then, Saul Bellow did say 'You never have to change anything you got up in the night to write.' Let's hope that's true. I did kind of go off the whole pillow thing, but I hope that's okay and you like it. Thought of a name for this one too. _

**Pillow ~anon **

**The Snow Keeps Falling**

John yawned, humming a little as he curled up under the warmth of the duvet. Snow fluttered down outside, settling still and undisturbed on the windowsill, while the snow on the street lay embedded with footprints and car tracks as London continued to move. He reached to the other side of the bed, only to find it was cold and empty. He opened his eyes and gazed at the clearly bare side of the bed. No detective lay beside him, with his messy bed-hair and crumpled clothes.

"Sherlock?" he called groggily, sitting up a little. As he gazed about the empty bedroom, the cold air around him slipped beneath the covers and crawled across his skin. He shivered. "Sherlock?" he called again, but there was no answer. He picked up his phone and sent a text as he crawled back under the covers, trying to regain the lost warmth.

_Where are you? I'm cold and lonely. -JW _

John sighed, dropping his phone beside him on the bed, closing his eyes. A cold breeze fluttered around the room from the window - they'd never quite fixed it from that rather interesting experiment Sherlock had carried out in their bedroom. John shivered and curled up tighter.

An arm slipped around his waist and hot breath brushed past his ear.

"Sorry." A smile crawled across John's lips as his eyes fluttered open. Full, soft lips traced his ear. Sherlock pressed warm kisses to the ear, then to the small amount of John's neck that could be reached beneath the covers. "Sorry for leaving you, my dear," Sherlock hummed, pulling John a little closer. "I shouldn't have left you here all… cold and lonely." John's smile widened as he turned to face Sherlock and slipped into his embrace. One of Sherlock's arms was wrapped around John's waist, holding him close, the other hand on the back of the doctor's sandy head. John unconsciously clutched onto the front of Sherlock's soft grey t-shirt, his head against the detective's chest.

"Not cold and lonely anymore," John murmured happily, shifting just a little closer. Sherlock smiled and pressed another soft kiss to the top of John's head. "Where did you go?" the doctor asked sleepily.

"Made tea," Sherlock replied as another cold draft billowed through the bedroom.

"Oh?" John hummed, making no effort to move.

"Yes." Sherlock's fingers slipped through John's soft blond hair. "But I'm warm here."

"So am I," John sighed. "I don't want to move."

"Don't then." The room relapsed into quiet. The snow still fluttered down around them, blanketing sleepy London under a sheet of white. The sun caught on the snow, sparkling the way a diamond ring might in candlelight. The criminal underworld seemed a thousand miles away from the cosy little flat and a million thoughts away from the minds of detective and doctor as they lay, perfectly still and content to be so, in a the warm bed of 221B.

The day drew on slowly, and for some time the pair lay in comfortable quiet in their bedroom as the snow continued its steady fall. After some time, John turned his head up to look at Sherlock, and found himself gazing into Sherlock's indescribably beautiful eyes. They remained for a moment, losing themselves in each other, before they moved together and their lips met.

Sherlock's fingers trailed through John's soft hair, pulling him closer with the arm around his waist. John's hand slipped up to cup Sherlock's snow white cheek, the cold air rushing in under the covers as he moved, but neither could care. They shared each other's warmth, and that was all they needed on that cold winter morning. Cases could be solved later, the taxis could be jumped in and the criminals could be chased in the afternoon, for now they just needed the soft quiet and the fluttering snow and to be wrapped in each other's arms. Gentle, warm kisses. Neither wanted anything more on the snowy February morning. And the tea stood, cold, on the bedside table.

"I love you, Sherlock," John murmured between kisses.

"I love you, too," Sherlock replied.

* * *

John dug his hands deeper into his coat pockets, another shiver running through him. He gazed up and down the road. The snow continued its steady fall, but the streets were grey and the covering on the pavement was worn by feet and salt into slush.

Sherlock had gone into some side street that was still almost completely white to check on something. Footsteps had been marked that morning, and it was absolutely essential that they remain undisturbed, so John stayed on the street, shivering, just waiting for Sherlock's return. He didn't mind. Sherlock wouldn't be long. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence, nor was it an offending one. Sherlock was Sherlock, his brilliant mind worked in incredible, unique, wonderful ways, and he needed some things to be a certain way. It was just the way things were. If he needed John to leave the flat so he could go to his mind palace, sometimes John would roll his eyes, but he would comply. Sherlock positively glowed when he was on a case, his mind buzzing and his eyes gleaming. He was a beautiful man, with a stunning mind and an even more incredible heart. Some people would ask if he was annoying, when he had to go off on his own for something and John would be left waiting, but John couldn't mind. It was just a part of his genius. Another little thing for John to love. And Sherlock's heart was something people believed he didn't have. But John knew it was there. Somewhere under the snowy skin, deep inside him, was the biggest, most wonderful heart John had ever known.

The sky mirrored London in its grey haziness, filtering white flecks onto the shops and the houses and the people as they rushed along with their lives. Most moved like ants, carrying their needs and following their line, focusing on what must be done, but occasionally, you could see someone who'd look up, someone who'd see the snow falling from London's canopy of cloud and who'd just stop to gaze upon the world with a smile. Someone who'd revel in a warm cup of coffee or a flickering fire. Or a favourite scarf.

"Right, we need to get back to the yard." John turned around to see his detective standing right beside him, looking down on his sandy head. Snow flecked his dark curls and black coat, glittering like his impossibly beautiful eyes. A smile spread across John's cold, chapped lips. "What?" Sherlock asked, his brow furrowed but his eyes still dancing.

"Nothing," John shrugged, still smiling. "Just… you being you."

"What about me?" Sherlock persisted, cocking his head to one side.

John's smile grew. "You being wonderful and beautiful and tall and brilliant and generally just the fact that you exist. That's why I'm smiling. Because you exist, and that makes me happy."

Sherlock's eyes brightened still further, their dazzling beauty making John's cold breath hitch in his throat as he gazed up at his detective. Sherlock's lips parted into a gleaming, truly happy smile. It wasn't a very common sight to see, that smile. It was a smile that gleamed with wonder and beauty, and, when combined with those brilliant eyes, shone brighter than the sun and all the stars combined. Sherlock leaned down and pressed the smallest of kisses to John's lips. John pulled his hand from his pocket and slipped it into Sherlock's gloved hand.

"Shall we be off then?" John suggested, dragging his eyes from Sherlock to look for a taxi.

"Yes. Yes, that sounds like a good idea," Sherlock agreed. He looked around briefly and spotted a taxi. "Come on then."

The pair walked briskly over the snow, their hands still joined, and climbed into the taxi without fuss. Sherlock squeezed John's hand lightly, his eyes still trained on the doctor's face, the stunning light still glowing. John sat right next to Sherlock, their joined hands resting on the detective's lap.

"Scotland Yard," Sherlock instructed the driver, his voice smooth and relatively quiet. There was a case, the chase was on, deductions were streaming and the silence Sherlock needed to think was screaming with thoughts, but somehow the day was still slow and quiet and low. They still sat quietly in the back of the cab, snow fluttering to the ground as it began to move. There was no need to rush. Sherlock's gleaming eyes were not alight with the thrill of the case, but with pure happiness that was so hard to find.

It was not a miraculous day. It was not a special day. It was not an important day. It was neither a birthday nor an anniversary, a holiday nor a date night. It was just a cold and snowy day in early February. And, for some secret reason, it was the happiest day in the world for a detective and a doctor in central London as they sat in the soft quietness of the back of a London taxi. They had each other. That was all they needed to make it the best day that ever passed.

Sherlock pressed a soft kiss to the top of John's head as the taxi drove on. John shifted a little closer, squeezing Sherlock's hand. Each of their smiles grew, not on their lips, but in their eyes. And with the simplicity of the gesture, each knew what the other meant.

_I love you, Sherlock._

_I love you, too._

* * *

"Tea?" John filled the kettle and flicked it on before Sherlock's mumbled 'Yes' came, and pulled out two mugs and teabags. Sherlock stood in front of the mirror, gazing at the photographs and notes stuck there, turning the case over in his mind. The smile played about John's mouth and eyes as he gazed across at his detective. His mind worked at an almost impossible pace, turning over in detail the minute everyone else missed. It was a truly incredible sight, the detective Sherlock Holmes when his mind was fully in action.

They'd only got in about five minutes ago. John had promptly ordered an Indian takeaway, knowing full well that there was no real food in the house and both of them needed to eat that night. Their coats and Sherlock's scarf were hung up and dripping slightly, their wet foot prints stained the floor and their warm breath thankfully lost its cloud as they entered the flat.

The sky outside was already dark, but the snow continued its relentless fall. The people of London were beginning to wind down, but the city never truly slept. There were the people who were just getting ready to go to some evening show and the people who were still working in the Indian restaurant John had ordered from and there was the detective and the doctor as they continued to work on the case in the warm 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock's eyes were bright and the snow gleamed and the doctor remained gazing at the impossible man standing in the living room, complete and brilliant. There had been a part of Sherlock, and of John, that hadn't quite been finished. Like each had started to write a story but lost inspiration halfway through, and each had been able to finish the other's for them.

The kettle flicked off, and John tore his gaze from Sherlock and poured the boiling water into the kettle, the steam hazing the air into momentary warmth. The doctor left it to brew, his thoughts and his eyes turning back to the miracle of Sherlock Holmes.

The fire danced, filling the flat with a soft warmth and light. The light cast soft, wonderful shadows across Sherlock's perfectly formed features, flickering in the back of his eyes as they flicked repeatedly over the photos and notes, each time a different stream of thoughts running through that genius mind. He stood, perfectly still, his hands drawn up to his face, fingertips together. The shadows cast from his cheekbones and his nose and full lips and over his eyes, which shone through, gleaming like the moon.

One thing that no one could ever deny was that Sherlock Holmes was a beautiful man. He had perfect white skin and silky dark curls and full lips and stunning, shining eyes. His brain though, his brain was even better, working fast and bright, thinking a million times over the details no one else could see, seeing and deducting and generally being brilliant. And then there was his heart. People would ask if Sherlock had one. They'd wonder if he was just stony and if when John said he was in love with him he meant he loved how clever and beautiful he was without Sherlock loving him in return. But Sherlock had the biggest, most stunning heart of anyone John had ever known. Of course, he said things differently. He showed love in a way no one else did and few others could understand. But he did love. He did care, he did show it, and even if he said they didn't exist, Sherlock was John's hero. He was the man who'd taken the battered and broken man with a shot in his shoulder and a scar in his heart, and fixed him up just by being himself. If asked what Sherlock did that was so wonderful, John would say he took him to dinner. It was no big deal, dinner, right? Every couple went to dinner. John would nod and say 'Yes, I suppose so' and shrug it off, but he'd have a secret smile dancing at his lips and his eyes because it didn't matter that other people didn't understand Sherlock. They didn't need to know why dinner was important. It just was, and that was enough.

John gazed across at Sherlock, his own thoughts turning through his mind, the secret smile beginning to toy about his mouth. There was Sherlock, working fast and brilliant, and John had his mind on something as silly as sentiment. Sherlock would roll his eyes. But he wouldn't protest.

"Oh," Sherlock breathed, his eyes widening momentarily. He took up a marker, circled something almost invisible in one of the photos and smirked to himself. "Case closed," he declared quietly. John laughed a little.

"You're too clever, you are," he commented lightly as he went to stir the tea. He took out the teabags, added milk and wandered over to the detective in the living room. "Here you go," he murmured as Sherlock took the steaming mug from him.

"Thank you," Sherlock smiled, pressing a kiss to John's forehead. John's eyes twinkled.

"Solved it?" he asked quietly, glancing over the pictures.

"Hmm. Not too difficult," Sherlock shrugged, taking a sip of his tea.

"Shall we let Lestrade know?" John suggested as he turned his gaze back to Sherlock.

"That can wait until morning." Sherlock set his mug down on the mantelpiece and turned to face John fully, took his mug from him and placed it on the mantelpiece next to his own, then he cupped John's face in his hands and brought it up, their lips meeting softly. John's arms slipped around Sherlock's alabaster neck and he leaned up on his tiptoes. Sherlock moved is hands to rest on John's back, then his arms wrapped around John's waist, pulling him up a little more as he deepened the kiss.

After a moment, they tore their lips from each other and relapsed into simply standing in each other's arms, John's head on Sherlock's shoulder, his breath hot on Sherlock's neck, his fingers straying through the dark curls, which were still slightly damp with snow. Sherlock's head was bowed, his arms around John, keeping him close and warm. They remained still for some time in each other's embrace, sharing warmth and unspoken words. That was all they could ever need as the snow kept falling, and the world kept turning and the night drew on.

_I love you, Sherlock. _

_I love you, too._

* * *

Sherlock slipped under the covers, his arm immediately snaking around John's waist. John turned into Sherlock's embrace, clutching at the t-shirt at his chest and resting his head against it. Sherlock pulled him a little closer with the arm around his waist, his other hand resting against the back of John's sandy head. Quiet lay about them, the city relapsing into relative stillness, and the snow kept falling.

Sherlock's breath was warm against John's head, his arms wrapped around him, protecting him from the biting cold and the general world. John clutched to Sherlock to keep him there, keep him with him, keep him safe. They cared for each other, needed each other, looked out for each other. They only needed to be in each other's arms to know they were fine. The world didn't matter so long as Sherlock had John and John had Sherlock. They were the heart and the brain. The scarf and the jumpers. They were, always had been and always would be Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson. It was just a part of the way the world worked.

John shuffled a little closer, tilting his head up to Sherlock's. Their lips met in gentle kisses. Sherlock pulled John impossibly closer, John's eyes fluttering closed. Darkness and quiet enveloped the bedroom, the cold air muted by their shared warmth.

After a moment, John lowered his head to Sherlock's chest again. Sherlock pressed another soft kiss to the top of John's head, before he laid his head to rest against his pillow. Both were perfectly happy to remain in the quiet darkness on that snowy February night. Sleep stole over doctor and detective as they lay, perfectly still and content to be so, in the warm bed of 221B. Just as they were about to drift off, comfortable and safe in each other's arms, words almost unconsciously slipped past John's lips.

"I love you, Sherlock," he murmured.

"I love you, too," Sherlock replied.


	10. Neck

_AN - Thanks for the prompt, as always. So I've finally finished all your words, thank you for all these, I had a lot of fun writing them all, and sorry for taking so long. And a HUGE thank you to all of you for reading and liking and sending me comments, you're all wonderful. I have got a LOT of prompts I still need to do, thanks for all of these, I'm loving writing them. I'm still accepting prompts, but please don't get mad if I take a while to write yours. Quite a short one here, hope you'll forgive me for that. This one gets rather steamy, obviously nothing nsfw (you'd all judge me because I'm fourteen, plus I'm crap at that). When given the prompt 'neck', well, how could I not write about that beautiful white thing Sherlock keeps hiding behind that scarf? _

**Neck ~anon**

Sherlock Holmes was, indisputably, beautiful. Often men are described as handsome, but that description simply didn't fit the detective. His skin was so pale it was almost translucent, stretched taught across cheekbones and collarbones and hipbones. His dark curls fell about his face, a stark and dazzling contrast to the whiteness of his skin. His eyes shone in his head, shaming the starlight that slipped onto doctor and detective as they walked. John had tried to fathom a word for the colour of his flat-mate's incredible eyes, but in vain. Yes, Sherlock Holmes was beautiful. No one could, or would, deny it.

One feature John Watson had always thought was key, was Sherlock's neck. He often kept it hidden beneath that soft blue scarf. Far too often, in fact. Tonight John felt especially irritated by the band of blue that covered the milky expanse of skin that lay beneath. Some rather agonising days, John just wanted to pin Sherlock to a wall and bite down on that neck, hard. This had most certainly been one of those days. And it was rapidly turning into one of those excruciating nights.

The night was hot and thick. Cars slipped past and people passed through their lives, head down and blinkers on, and Sherlock walked slowly, his head turned down, his eyes cast down to the pavement at his feet. John's breath hitched in his throat as he gazed at Sherlock, losing himself in the dazzling gleam of his eyes, in the stark whiteness of his face and the inky blackness of his curls, in the sharp determination pulsing through his body as he walked. John dragged his gaze from Sherlock and looked at the pavement, trying to ignore the hot pulse that rippled through him. He'd always known Sherlock Holmes was strikingly beautiful, almost uncomfortably hot, but he'd found that of late, every room turned into a sauna as soon as Sherlock entered. He swallowed thickly and tried vainly to turn his mind back to the case.

Sherlock was deafeningly silent, his thoughts screaming inarticulately through his mind and getting lost in the night air. The night was breathing hot air down their necks as they walked slowly down the road. His eyes gleamed. His breath was thick and audible. His genius mind worked at an impossible pace. John swallowed thickly. The silence enveloped them, pulsing in their ears, and John was sure Sherlock could hear his beating heart with those sensitive ears.

Sherlock froze at the end of the road, his head flicked up, his eyes gleaming brighter than ever. John moistened his lips, his gazed fixed on the detective. The perfect, almost invisible smile that Sherlock wore when his mind was most brilliant pulled just slightly at the corner of his mouth, narrowing his eyes that almost undetectable amount that John had come to see as the most obvious movement Sherlock had ever made. Almost a twitch, John knew it, saw it, loved it. His eyes danced.

"That's clever," Sherlock breathed, his eyes fixed on the air in front of him as if he could see exactly what they were looking for right before them. John said nothing. The twitching smile again. John's heart beat deafeningly. Sherlock turned and began to walk quickly, almost running, down a road. John ran after him. His blood pulsed. Heat rippled through him. The night got closer.

They ran along the river edge, breath heavy and loud, feet pounding on the road. Heads turned momentarily as doctor and detective ran in and out of their lives without stopping to realise they ever had. Sherlock turned onto a footbridge, John followed deftly. The river was black beneath them, perfectly reflecting Sherlock's pearly skin and John's hot gaze.

Sherlock stopped, John followed suit, standing a few feet from the detective, his eyes burning into that thick black coat. _Isn't he hot in that?_ John wondered. He couldn't stop the smirk from spreading over his face at the thought, realising just what his question implied. Sherlock stood against the wall behind him, his head turned to the alleyway just next to them. John's mind flicked, a little reluctantly, back to the matter at hand, his face relapsing to his usual expression for action.

"What is it?" he asked breathlessly, slipping back against the wall, his eyes flicking to the road turning momentarily before resting once more on Sherlock's perfectly formed face.

"She's there," Sherlock replied almost silently. His head turned to John, his blinding gaze blazing into John's bluest eyes. The air got ever hotter. The detective raised a finger deftly to his full, sharp lips. John nodded. His tongue ran over his lips. Sherlock turned his head back to the alley turning. John swallowed, readying himself for action.

Heat surrounded them, creeping into their very pores. The night span. Sherlock ran. Shouts. Running. Smoke. Fire. Shit, _fire_. Run. John's head whirled and his heart beat louder than the yelling. Water. Smoke. Running. Leather boots. A smirk and a wink. The sound of the motorbike as it sped out of reach. Silence.

"No, no, NO!" Sherlock yelled, running after it vainly as it sped through another alley and out of sight. John leaned against the wall, his breath heavy and thick, gazing at Sherlock. They were so close, _so damned close _to catching her this time. She wasn't called Vixen for nothing. An image of her with her leather boots and her sly smile and her red hair flashed through John's mind as Sherlock paced before him. They'd been on her tail for a long time, and John knew Sherlock had been sure they would get her tonight. Somehow, they'd catch the fox tonight. Even if they had to smoke her right out of her den.

Sherlock stood above where her fire had been, gazing at the alleyway she'd disappeared down. He ran his tongue over his lips, then turned his eyes to the wall in front of him. He pulled the scarf from around his neck, revealing the whitest skin that hid beneath, and stuffed it into his coat pocket. The night grew hotter. John swallowed. Sherlock cast his eyes to the ground, his head turned down. Smoke rose from the floor at his feet, swirling around his head. His eyes gleamed. His hair coal black, his skin ice white. His neck teasingly bare. His cheekbones casting perfect shadows across his face.

John stood up, his eyes fixed on Sherlock, and stepped towards him. His breath still hitched in his throat. His eyes burned. Sherlock turned his eyes to John, the gleam they took on when he was lost in thought not fading as he met John's gaze. John stood close enough to feel Sherlock's breath. Sherlock didn't move. John flicked his eyes over Sherlock's face, those dazzling eyes, those sharp cheekbones, that marble skin, those soft lips. The air grew thicker.

John's hand was against the back of Sherlock's neck and he pulled Sherlock down as he turned his head up, their lips meeting in smoky, half-senseless urgency. John didn't realise he was doing it until too late. Sherlock's tongue trailed along John's bottom lip. Sherlock pressed a hand to the base of John's back, pulling him closer, as John let his fingers slip through Sherlock's black curls.

Sherlock tore away, gazing deeply into John's cobalt eyes, blown wide with hazy lust. His brow creased ever so slightly. "What?" he breathed his eyes searching John's face.

"You being all mysterious with your cheekbones," John replied, a smile teasing the corners of his lips. "Taking your scarf off because you are too damn hot."

Sherlock nodded ever so slightly, and collided their lips together again. John kissed Sherlock with feverish need, pushing him back against the wall. Sherlock's hand pressed against John's back, the other grabbing his hip.

John's lips moved to Sherlock's jawline, his teeth trailing it, leaving tingling sparks under Sherlock's perfect skin. Sherlock tipped his head back slightly, letting John's mouth move to that neck. He kissed, sucked, bit it, colouring the white canvas with blooming red marks. Hot, heavy, thick breaths. Sweat and saliva. Biting kisses. Smoke and smouldering summer night air. John's mouth moved to Sherlock's collarbone, slipping his hands to that tightest shirt, pulling open those desperate buttons and tracing the revealed skin with his mouth. Sherlock's chest heaved. John kissed. Licks and bites and sucks. Burning skin.

Sherlock dipped his head to John's and pulled him away from his chest, shoving his lips against the doctor's again. He pulled him close again. John's arms curled around that neck, his fingers clutching at the curls. Their tongues danced together. John moaned slightly into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock pulled him closer.

Sherlock broke off the kiss, shoving John back slightly. John gazed into those beautiful eyes, almost completely black with desire. A smirk toyed with Sherlock's slightly swollen, red lips as he did up the button of his shirt again. John ran his tongue over his lips, his eyes still fixed on Sherlock.

"Come on, then," Sherlock smirked, his voice vibrating in John's bones.

"Come on where?" John asked breathlessly.

"Let's go catch that Vixen." Sherlock turned and walked determinedly through the alleyway she had disappeared down. John swallowed, then followed.

Just as they were about to reach the end of the alleyway, Sherlock turned and pinned John to the wall, meeting his gaze again, his hands pinning John back by his hips .

"And, when we get back to the flat," Sherlock murmured, his breath hot on John's face, "I'm going to catch you." And with that promise, he walked to the road, leaving John staring after him, images of that beautifully marked neck flashing through his mind. Yes, Sherlock Holmes was a beautiful man. And all John wanted to do - like any human does with a beautiful thing - was take that beauty and mark it.


	11. Parentlock

_AN – I AM WRITING THIS IN SPAIN! So, so, so sorry for not updating in so long, but I do have (reasonably) good excuses. I was doing GISHWHES for one week (which was AMAZING, and I highly recommend it) and this past week I have been in Spain, which is very hot and sunny and has given me some nice, relaxing writing time. Thanks for this one. I played with quite a few ideas when I started writing it, you gave me so much freedom. Here's what I've come up with. It's a bit bloody, so don't read if you have problems with that sort of thing. Hope you like what I did with this. _

**Parentlock ~ottersinthetardis221b**

**TW – Violence**

Hamish paused at the door, staring at the handle. They might be home, they might be on the case. He swallowed thickly, then immediately regretted it as a burning pain shot through his throat. He took the tissue from his nose and found a quarter of an inch that wasn't soaked in blood, then pressed it to his nose again. Blood still seeped out in a steady stream. He was soaked to his battered and bruised skin, but blood still clung to his hair and clothes and crawled into every painful fibre of his body. And every cell hurt.

He'd awoken in a ditch, his whole body aching, rain and blood and pain blurring his vision as he pulled open his eyes. He'd taken a mental inventory of the damage done – nose broken, stomach thoroughly beaten, suspected cracked rib, covered in bruises and cuts, scratches across his face, arms and back from the ground amongst other things. And pain. Shooting, aching, stinging pain, everywhere. The rain was pissing down when he awoke, but he just lay there, thinking over what the hell had happened and why he was lying in a ditch in the rain, beaten half to a pulp and overwhelmed with pain. It took him a minute to be sure he wasn't dying. However, as he lay semi-conscious, drenched by rain and blood, the memories flooded him, and soaked his mind more than the rain did his body.

_This is fucking shit._

There was no point staring at the door. There was no point trying to hear if they were home – if his dad was thinking, things would be silent. There was no point putting it off any longer. Hamish ran his tongue over his swollen lips and reached for the door handle, just hoping to God or whoever that his parents weren't home.

The flat appeared silent, other than the sound of the rain beating against the window. He looked about him as he stepped inside, thinking over his plan, which happened to be one of the simplest plans in the world – painkillers from the cupboard, then upstairs for a shower and change of clothes, then try to sleep again. That was almost painful in its simplicity, but Hamish knew all too well that the simplest plans could fail. The only thing that had to happen for his plan to fail was the presence of his parents.

The crime scene pictures were stuck on the mirror, the case file lay open on the coffee table, notes scribbled on pages of information and pictures, an experiment was in progress on the oven, but there were no other people in the flat. Hamish let out a sigh of relief as he read the note on the kitchen table.

_Just gone to investigate something with the case. Don't know when we'll be back, you might have to get your own tea. -Papa. _

Hamish limped to the cupboard where they kept the medicines (_STRICTLY NO BODY PARTS THAT GOES FOR BOTH OF YOU_) and riffled through it until he found some painkillers. He struggled a little with the packet, his hands still shaking and bleeding slightly, until he managed to get two small pills. The pain wasn't even beginning to relent, which made the process of getting a glass of water annoyingly long. He downed the pills as quickly as he could, and was just limping towards the door to go upstairs and have a shower when there were two pairs of footsteps on the stairs outside.

_Shit_.

Hamish considered trying to get upstairs before they could stop him, but the idea was idiotic. They were almost at the door. Besides, he'd have to tell them about it sometime. They'd notice – he wouldn't exactly be fixed up by one shower. His papa would, of course, insist he be taken straight to Bart's to get the nose at least fixed, while his dad would be fixated on finding the people who did this to him and thinking about what to do about it. He'd have to do it sometime, so why not see them still blooded and covered in mud? He reminded himself it was probably best not to bite his lip, backed against a counter and waited for the door to open.

"Mish? You in your room?" Hamish heard his papa call.

_Shit, shit, fuck, shit_.

More people than himself would be in pain by the end of this. He took a deep, rather painful breath as the door opened.

Sherlock walked in, drenched but smiling to himself as he glanced about the flat. He froze completely as he saw his son, his eyes flicking over him, reading every minute detail. John followed Sherlock's gaze as he entered, and the wet bag of shopping he'd been carrying dropped to the floor.

"Oh, God, Hamish," he breathed, walking to his son, his gaze taking in every battered and blooded part of him. John had Sherlock's ability at spotting things when it came to injuries, and Hamish was sure he'd be able to see every tiny thing that was wrong with him.

_Shit_.

"Sit down," John ordered, his face set. Hamish gazed at him, completely still. "Hamish, sit down," John repeated. His eyes were flashing in a way Hamish had never seen before, and most certainly didn't like. He obeyed, glancing between his papa and his dad, trying not to bite his still bleeding lip.

Rather to Hamish's surprise, John didn't demand to know who did this. Instead, he went to the medicine cabinet and found what he might need, then filled a bowl with warm water. John had been an army doctor, he was used to seeing serious injuries on people he cared about, and used to flicking to doctor mode. He got things done. Sherlock, however, remained standing, gazing determinedly at Hamish. Hamish remained perfectly still under his dad's gaze, all too used to it by now, and just let his papa work his medical skills on him.

"We should get you to the hospital to get that nose fixed," John announced after he'd cleaned up most of the blood on Hamish's face and arms. "And the rib," he added, scanning him again. "Ribs. Do you want to get a shower or a bath or anything before we go?"

The rain was relentless in its pouring, and Hamish wondered if he could just get that shower by standing outside. The sky was slate-grey, dreary and overbearing. People ran along the streets, ducking into shops just for a moment to dry off, some walking under the protection of umbrellas. Cars crawled along the roads. London was a torrent of moving water, the people like fish or whatever lived in the Themes, all swimming along to carry on with their lives because the water wouldn't stop moving. The world wouldn't stop turning. The idiots who'd pummelled him wouldn't really be dwelling on the fact they'd left him in a ditch to rot in the rain and his own blood. This wouldn't really truly affect them. It didn't matter.

And still Sherlock was staring at Hamish, working out exactly how every mark on his skin was made and by whom.

_For fuck's sake. _

"What do you think?" John asked, pouring away the muddy and bloody water.

"Umm… yeah, I'd like to have a bath first," Hamish replied, his eyes trailing to the floor.

"Right, okay," John nodded. "You can do that in a minute." He sat down next to Hamish, gazing at him with as much intent as Sherlock, but without the slightly dangerous gleam. Hamish kept his eyes on the floor. "Mish?" John began, sighing slightly. "What happened?"

"I got beaten up," Hamish mumbled, trying to shrug off the question.

"Who?" Sherlock demanded, his voice low and slightly dangerous. First time he'd spoken since they'd entered. "Trevor? Hopkin? Was it that idiot Moriarty-Moran boy?"

"No, dad," Hamish interrupted, finally turning his gaze up to Sherlock. "No, Alex had nothing to do with it. Darren Trevor and Reese Hopkin did though, yes. There were a couple more. Don't know who."

"And they just beat you up?" John asked, raising his eyebrows slightly.

"Well, I did fight back a bit," Hamish replied, looking between his papa and his dad. "And when there were too many for me to get out of there, I got in some comments about what each of them was doing last night. They didn't like it, but you know – it was a way to do something to get back at them." Hamish couldn't miss the trace of a smirk that crossed his dad's face. Apparently, he'd done the same, when faced with a similar situation. "Learned from the best," Hamish added, offering his dad a painful smile.

"And the reason?" John persisted, ignoring the mentions of Sherlock's, rather painful, childhood. "I suppose you know _why _they did it?"

Hamish lowered his eyes to the ground, shuffling a little where he sat. He knew he couldn't make it less obvious that he knew, but there was something to be said in looking uncomfortable enough to not having any more questions asked. Right now, he just wanted a bath, then bed. Or rather, hospital, as John had decided. "Yeah," he mumbled, refusing to look at either of his parents.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Something bigger than the things he got beaten up at school for. Something Sherlock and John really wouldn't like. He moistened his lips, gazing intently at his son.

"And?" John continued, cocking his head to one side.

Hamish took a deep breath, leaning back in his chair and looking up to the ceiling. He moistened his swollen lips. "They, umm…" he began. He shrugged. Might as well say. There was nothing to be done. "They said it was because my parents are gay."

Silence. Hamish didn't dare look at either of his parents, dropping his head down again and fixing his gaze firmly on the floor. Let them do whatever the hell they liked. Let them yell at him, let his dad go and track down the homophobic shits who'd done this, let his papa nurse him like the four-year-old who'd been pushed over at school because _only freaks have two daddies. _Hamish couldn't really care what they did to anyone else or himself right now. Just so long as they didn't turn on each other. Life was hard enough as it was. They loved each other, but they'd been fighting more and more as Hamish's school life got worse and worse. The yelling had echoed in Hamish's ears he lay on the floor, receiving kick after kick. He didn't care what happened, just so long as it didn't hurt his parent's relationship. Then things would sort themselves out.

"There's hot water," John said quietly, his eyes fixed on his son. "Go and get your bath." Hamish dragged himself up, limped out of the room and up the stairs to his bathroom, feeling worse than he did when he was lying in the ditch. From the way John had been looking at Sherlock when he left, this wouldn't be something that would be forgotten about after tonight.

Sherlock's gaze was directed towards the chair where Hamish had been, but his incredible eyes were unfocused and moving slightly, as if pouring over all the information in his mind like it was right in front of him. John stared at him in silence, listening to the rain as it relentlessly slashed the window. After some time, the sound of Hamish running the bath joined that of the rain as it poured through their lives. The air was thick and tight, too many unspoken words crushed into the small kitchen. John swallowed thickly, breaking the all too close silence.

"What are we going to do?" he asked simply, his gaze still fixed on his husband.

"I don't know," Sherlock answered, dropping his head and running his fingers through his dark curls. "We've seen cases like this, but… I don't know. This is... It's not like the others. This is… it's…"

"Personal," John finished.

"Yeah, personal." Sherlock sighed, turning his eyes to the wall in front of him and leaning his hands on the chair. "What do they want?"

"Who?" John asked quietly.

"The attackers, the attackers," Sherlock replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Why do that? What do they hope to gain?"

John shrugged slightly. "They want to cause pain," he offered.

Sherlock's eyebrows raised. "A punch in the face certainly causes pain," he commented.

"And I suppose," John continued, standing up and wandering to where Sherlock stood. "On some level or other, they want to break us apart."

Sherlock turned suddenly and stood up properly, staring down at John, his icy eyes melting. "They won't succeed, will they?" he asked, and John was sure he could see a tiny trace of fear in Sherlock's eyes.

"No," he promised, resting a hand against Sherlock's face.

"No?" Sherlock echoed, eyes glimmering with hope.

"No." John pulled Sherlock down a little and pressed his lips to his husband's softly. "No, they'll never succeed. I love you, Sherlock, I completely and utterly love you and those idiots can't change that."

Sherlock's eyes flicked over John's face, taking in every minute detail. "I love you, too," he said at length. "Forever."

"That's a long time," John commented.

"Not long enough for me to love you for."

John gazed into Sherlock's incredible eyes as silence surrounded them again, swallowing the promise just made.

"We said all that before," Sherlock noted quietly. "When we got married, we promised that. And it meant a lot, I know it meant a lot, but… why does it mean as much now?"

John considered for a moment. "When we got married, we made the vows and we kissed and it was all very happy and very meaningful," he began, feeling Sherlock's eyes searching his face to the smallest detail, letting him. "But it was planned. We knew what was going to happen when we said it. But life isn't like that. We don't know what's going to happen. Now we're promising this when times are hard and 'us' is under pressure. I'm afraid that we were close to breaking apart. We knew the promise would stand when we were happy and life was good, but now we've made the promise when things are bad and hard, we know that we'll stay together through anything. When bad times come again – and I'm afraid that's a 'when', not an 'if' – we have that guarantee that we'll love each other and stay together through all of it. Neither of us ever want to part, and knowing that's still the case when things like this happen is more reassuring. It means as much as when we said it standing at the alter because we _have _to mean it now. At the alter, we could have just wanted to."

"I meant it then," Sherlock said quietly.

"So did I," John nodded.

"But I understand. I loved you then, and I love you now. Forever."

"Forever," John agreed.

And John kissed him again, his eyes fluttering closed. Sherlock's arms slipped around John's waist, pulling him closer. The rain thrashed against the window as if attempting to reach the couple, as if to try to hurt them more, but they stood, wrapped in each other's arms and lips, and the blows fell harmless and ignored. Upstairs, Hamish washed the mood and blood off his aching skin, ready to patch himself up and face another day. This wouldn't hurt the little, rather extraordinary family. Not while the most ordinary force in the universe held them together.

Sherlock pulled his lips from John's and pressed his forehead against the doctor's. "I'm sorry," he murmured, the two small words echoing through John's ears, weighed down with their full meaning. I'm sorry for letting this happen. I'm sorry for seeming like I don't care. I'm sorry for all the times I've hurt you. I'm sorry for all the yelling. I'm sorry for everything I need to apologise for.

"I'm sorry, too," John breathed in reply. I'm sorry for overreacting. I'm sorry for misunderstanding. I'm sorry for being away so much. I'm sorry for ignoring what I know about you and focusing on what you say rather than what you mean. I'm sorry for letting our situation get this bad. I'm sorry for everything I need to apologise for.

Sherlock joined their lips again, kissing John softly. The rain fell. London moved. Life continued. Sherlock and John stood, perfectly content with their fresh promise.

"Things will get better," John mumbled against Sherlock's lips, slipping his arms around Sherlock's neck and leaning up on his toes.

"Yes, they will," Sherlock agreed, pulling John just a little closer. "I'm going to catch the idiots who did this," he added, his lips still against John's.

"I know, and I won't stop you," John sighed.

"And I'll kill them."

"I will stop you doing that.

"Shame."

"Let's go fix up our son."

"Alright."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"I love you."

"I love you, too."


	12. Post-Reichenbach

_AN – Post-Reichenbach angst coming right up! Decided to make John's mental state a little better in this one than in my other post-reichenbachs, and Sherlock's quite a lot worse. Couple of trigger warnings to this one, sorry about that. It's quite a bit longer than my others, too. Thanks for the review and the prompt. And I'm still in denial about the moustache, so if you were hoping for some moustache play I'm afraid you're reading the wrong ficlet. Besides, it just gets in the way of the whole tears and embracing bit (to my mind, anyway). _

**Sherlock comes back to John after appearing dead. With lots of tears and embracing and all ~Jeniffer**

**TW – Drug use, self-harm, mentions of suicide **

Sherlock swallowed, hesitating a little before entering the restaurant. He gazed around. He was here somewhere, he'd gotten the message. Sherlock's eyes fell upon a man sitting in the corner, a man with sandy blond hair. He took a sip of water and glanced around, not really paying attention. Sherlock moistened his lips, about to step towards the table, when a man went past it.

"John? John Watson?" he asked, gazing at John.

"Michael? It's been ages!" John exclaimed, standing up and shaking this Michael's hand.

"Yeah, it has. Sorry, am I interrupting?" the man asked, glancing at the other seat.

"No, actually. I'm just waiting for somebody," John explained, sitting back down.

"Who?" Michael inquired.

"No idea, to be honest," John chuckled. "I got a strange message at work today from Molly - she works in the morgue - saying to come here tonight at seven. She said I'd be meeting up with a man I hadn't seen in a long time and that I really would want to be here."

"Well, you met me," Michael joked.

"Yeah, I did," John sighed.

"It's seven thirty," the man pointed out, checking his watch. "You haven't seen anyone else you recognise here?"

John glanced around. Sherlock ducked behind a decorated pillar as John looked towards the door. "No. They probably won't turn up. Didn't get a phone number or anything." He took another sip of water as Sherlock peered around the pillar again. "You here with someone?"

"I was," Michael replied. "But she had to go. Mother having some problems."

"You didn't go with her?"

"Her mother detests me. I'd just make things worse."

Both men chuckled. John looked around again, an idea visibly crossing his mind. "Why don't you join me? Looks like my mystery man isn't going to turn up."

Michael pondered the idea for a moment, before smiling and taking a seat. "Thanks, John."

Sherlock paused, gazing at John and his old friend, watching as he laughed and talked and smiled. He was happy. He was actually happy now, without him. Mycroft had said, he'd said he'd gotten over it now. He'd watched as Sherlock practically had a breakdown – Mycroft's crude words – desperate to see him again. Mycroft had been adamant. 'Not until you've finished.' 'You mustn't ruin it.' 'You're putting him in danger.' 'He's happy now.' That was true. He was smiling and laughing and definitely being happy. He had friends, Molly and Lestrade and Stamford. He had people he knew who weren't Sherlock. He had a life. While Sherlock's world had been crumbling around him as he desperately tried to rebuild the cold wall that protected him from the people who wanted to hurt him, and destroy Moriarty's web, John had been continuing his life. A new life, perfectly content to be without Sherlock.

"Well, this Molly said you knew the bastard who didn't come," Michael was saying. "Who do you think it might have been?"

John considered, still smiling. "I don't know. I suppose it could have been anyone I used to know – army people, guys I studied with. Possibly someone from high school even. But…" He turned his eyes to the table, thinking. "Molly seemed excited herself. Like it was a big deal to her as well as to me. So presumably she knew the person."

Michael nodded. "That makes sense."

"So someone I'd really want to see who she knew and wanted me to see, who I haven't seen in a while." A flicker of emotion crossed John's face, emotion Sherlock had never really seen before, emotion that struck Sherlock to the core. Hurt, fear, loss, anguish and a million other painful things flashed on John's face and blazed in his eyes, just for a moment. Michael didn't appear to notice it; how could he? It happened in the blink of an eye. But even as John's face cleared and he smiled a little again, the emotions still simmered in the back of his eyes.

"Any ideas?" Michael asked.

"Well," John sighed, "I can think of one person who appears to fit that description. But that's just not feasible."

"Really?" Michael persisted, eyebrows raised. "And why not?"

"Because he's dead," John replied simply, staring at Michael with all too convincing nonchalance. Sherlock swallowed thickly, gazing at them for another second as conversation continued, before turning and leaving the restaurant.

* * *

Sherlock sat on a bench, his head tilted back, the stars twinkling down at him. He had nowhere to go right now. Of course, he could head back to the grotty little hotel where he was staying. He could go to his brother, not that that was appealing in the slightest. He could see Molly, or Lestrade; he actually had innumerable places he could go right now, but he did not want to go to one of them. Although, the hotel room was getting more and more appealing, given what he had stored under the loose board in the wardrobe. They said he retreated there too often, and it was true – he was getting more and more dependant on the needles he'd rid himself of so long ago. Because he couldn't see John.

He didn't care about people because people didn't care about him. He'd learned that a long time ago, when people laughed and his mother yelled and Mycroft told him that caring will never be an advantage. So he made a cast around his broken heart and left it there, let it heal but let it shrink, deprived of love. But that was better than a broken one. But, sometime, without his intention, he'd let John sign his cast, and he'd signed it _they were wrong_. Caring did matter. And Sherlock's heart learned what it was to love. And it had learned what heartbreak was once more.

He was about to get up, about to retreat to the world beyond the stars by shooting morphine in his blood, when someone past. A short man with sandy blond hair, walking with his head down. He was going home. Sherlock stood up after the man was a few feet away and walked behind him, watching him closely. John didn't look over his shoulder, didn't even glance down at the river as he walked along its bank. Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the doctor. The moon gazed down at them, pale with surprise, as they walked, John completely unaware that behind him walked the man he'd missed for three long years, Sherlock completely unaware for once of anything else but John. He was limping, just slightly, Sherlock noted. How long had he been doing that?

After some time, John stopped and turned to a little terraced house. Sherlock stood some way off, not moving forward as John walked up the path to the door. It opened before he reached it and a woman stepped towards him, smiling.

"John, love, are you alright?" she asked, her voice soft and warm. "Who was it?"

John smiled back at her as he walked right up to her. He placed a gentle kiss on her lips. "I don't know," he admitted, chuckling a little. "They didn't show up."

She looked a little shocked as she stood before him. "You weren't waiting there alone all this time?"

"No," John assured her. "No, I actually met a guy from the force. It was nice to catch up. But he wasn't the guy I was waiting for apparently. It was good, though, we had fun."

"I'm glad," she smiled, taking his hand. "Kettle's just boiled."

"Lovely."

They stepped forward towards the house. "John, dear," she said suddenly, stopping again, her voice quiet and concerned. "You're limping."

"Oh, right," John sighed, his eyes cast on the woman's gentle face.

"Did you think it might be him?" she asked softly.

"No, he's dead," John replied, the emotions gleaming in his eyes again.

"Come and have some tea," she instructed, and Sherlock could see her squeezing John's hand. "It'll be fine."

"Okay," John nodded.

Sherlock watched as they walked together into the house that wasn't 221B Baker Street.

* * *

Sherlock walked home slowly, pouring over all the information he'd learned tonight from silently watching. He'd been told all this before, by Lestrade, by Mycroft, but he'd never really paid much heed. Now he'd seen it with his own eyes, now he'd heard his voice and watched his movements, Sherlock could do nothing but know it. Every time he blinked, he saw him kissing her, just a soft press of his lips against hers, every time he heard a sound it was muffled by his voice saying _'He's dead'_.

He was happy. He had moved on. He had her now. It had all been said before, but now the stark reality of it crushed Sherlock's already battered heart. He walked along the river, his reflection moving in silence by his side, the river full of all the tears he'd never had the courage to shed. The truth was there, indisputable, irreversible. John simply didn't need him anymore. Didn't want him. Life was good without him. Mycroft was right – if he went back now, he'd just ruin everything. No one needed Sherlock Holmes. He'd served his purpose for John – given him a place to stay and a life to live after Afghanistan, until he found someone else to fill his life. But Sherlock still needed John. He needed him to tell him when timing was wrong and remind him to eat and sleep and he needed John to keep his heart safe for him like he'd done for so long. John had everything without Sherlock, while Sherlock had nothing without John. The work had been most important for so long, but now that place was reserved for John, reserved for an option that could only bring pain. And pain it had brought. But no one could care for Sherlock's pain. No one needed him.

Sherlock walked quicker, almost running to his hotel room. He locked the door behind him and fell to his knees beside the wardrobe. He tugged the doors open, cleared the bottom and removed the loose board at the back. He needed this, he needed it like the day needs the sun. It was the only thing that helped numb the pain. Lestrade had told him to stop, he'd taken everything he thought Sherlock had, then Mycroft had taken a little more. No one knew about the wardrobe. Which was good.

He fitted the syringe together swiftly and filled it with the drug. His hands were shaking. Useless things, they shouldn't be shaking. He'd done this enough times to know just how to do it, just how much to give himself and just how to inject it. He pulled up his sleeve, revealing his scarred and pricked arm. His eyes ballooned as the needle slipped under his skin, the drug flooding into him. He pulled out the needle, lying back on the floor as the world began to spin.

* * *

"Ruddy idiot."

Not quite the words Sherlock had expected to hear as he slipped back into the world of the conscious. Lestrade was sitting beside his bed, arms folded across his chest as he stared down at Sherlock.

"What are you trying to do, kill yourself?"

Sherlock swallowed thickly. His head was spinning, his stomach was aching and he generally felt the all too familiar sort of awful. He sighed and closed his eyes.

"Overdose?" he asked quietly, his voice hoarse.

"Yes," Lestrade confirmed. "I had to kick the bloody door down. Then I found you lying unconscious on the floor in a pile of your own vomit and blood. What the hell were you thinking?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He just lay there, his eyes closed, listening to Lestrade's voice as it slipped in and out of focus.

"You are a bloody idiot. And you need to stop doing this. You'll kill yourself if you carry on."

_Maybe that's not such a bad thing._

* * *

Sherlock didn't know why he was there. He just was. He kept finding himself there, like John had kept finding himself at Sherlock's grave that first year. John's new house stood serene and content, its occupants as happy as the bright, summer's day. Sherlock moistened his lips, one hand subconsciously running up and down his freshly scarred arm. He shouldn't be here. John didn't want him. He was better off thinking he was dead. Sherlock himself would probably be better off dead. He swallowed thickly as the thought crossed his mind again.

Ever since the overdose, the thought had been more and more prominent in his fast but damaged brain. No one needed him anymore. John thought he was dead. Lestrade didn't trust him with cases. Mycroft just didn't care either way. Molly was over her crush and didn't really talk to him anymore. Lestrade would probably be a lot happier to find there was no pulse when he next kicked the door down to find Sherlock in a pool of blood. Today, he felt, was the day. Yesterday John had bought a ring. There was nothing left. So what was the point?

He was about to turn, about to walk back to the crap hotel and finish his crap life, when the door opened, and out stepped John. He wasn't smiling. The sun beat down on his slightly tanned face, and he turned his head up to the sky. Sherlock could almost see the soldier in Afghanistan, ready for action, for danger, for anything. An independent man who didn't need anybody, least not Sherlock. He began to walk down the path to the pavement, and Sherlock started to walk past the house, head down, before John noticed him. John was lost in thought, and Sherlock felt his heart quicken as John collided into him.

"Oh, god, I'm sorry," John said quickly, just glancing at Sherlock.

"Alright," Sherlock mumbled, head still down as he continued walking, hoping John had been too lost in his mind to notice who he was. John didn't stop him. It must have worked. John paid Sherlock so little attention that he hadn't noticed who he was when he met him. Fine. That was fine. Sherlock was nothing now.

Then Sherlock heard John's voice again. "No… no, he's dead. He's _dead_, it was that stupid hallucination again, it's not real."

Hallucination? John had had hallucinations? No, that couldn't have been. Sherlock didn't matter to John anymore, why should he have hallucinations about him? But still, Sherlock froze, rooted to the spot, his back still turned to John. But John didn't move away. Silence descended over the warm, sunny day once more, and Sherlock could feel John's eyes burning into the back of his coat hotter than any sun could.

"You're dead," John said, his voice calm and level. "You're dead. Stop bothering me. I was limping yesterday because of you. I didn't eat yesterday because of you. You're dead. Go away."

Sherlock did not leave. He did not turn. He stood, his eyes closed, listening to the sound of John's voice. He hadn't heard that voice talking to him for too long. And now it was telling him to leave.

"I said 'go away'," John repeated. "I've had enough of seeing you. The graveyard, Bart's, even at the bloody restaurant a few weeks ago. I see you everywhere. And I'm bloody sick of it. Can't I have one day? One bloody day?"

One day? That implied that he'd seen some vision of Sherlock or other every day. Every day for three years. Which was ridiculous.

"I refuse to let myself believe that you could be real," John said, the worlds rolling off his tongue like routine. "You cannot be real. It is not possible, I know that. I know that. I was going to visit your grave again. Remind myself, Mary said. I need to do that sometimes. Just see your headstone to remind myself you're there and not here. But, honestly, most of the time I go just to be with you. Because it feels a bit like you're there sometimes. And that's… nice. If she knew that she'd send me back to therapy. Therapy is not the point. What is the point? The point is you're dead and I'm never going to see you again, not really. Just your ghost."

John's voice was getting hoarse. He stumbled over his words, and Sherlock felt his heart shatter in his chest as he heard the crack on John's voice when he said _ghost_. His breathing had quickened a little, and he sounded like he was trying to calm himself. Had John really been falling apart without him? If that was the case, there was no way of knowing what would happen if he knew Sherlock was alive. Sherlock could still feel the needle in his arm. Still see the blood dripping from cuts on his arms and legs. Still hear Greg's voice saying _kill yourself_. And yet, there was John. So long as there was John, there was life. Without John, there was nothing. He swallowed thickly, still unsure, as he heard John's breathing behind him, unsteady, fast. That was unusual. And not good, most likely. His tongue ran over his lips, and he turned.

"No," John repeated, his eyes fixing on Sherlock's face, his breathing ever quicker. "No, go _away_. You are dead. You… are… dead…" He took deep, shuddering breaths between each word, shaking his head.

Sherlock stepped forward slowly, walking right up to John. John who seemed to be on the brink of some sort of anxiety attack right before him. John who he'd missed for three long years. John who he'd loved for too long to mark a beginning.

"Go. Just. Stop this," John ordered, gazing up into Sherlock's face, meeting those incredible eyes, eyes aged with loss and hurt and memory and the brokenness that comes with caring. "You're dead," John breathed.

Sherlock held out his right hand to John, his gaze flicking to it before returning to searching John's face. "Take my hand," he ordered quietly, his voice rumbling in John's chest.

John reached up his shaking left hand, and slipped it into Sherlock's right. Sherlock turned it up so their fingers pointed towards the endless blue sky, lacing their fingers together. John's breath hitched in his throat as tears pricked his eyes.

"I'm here," Sherlock breathed.

John swallowed thickly, shaking his head. "No," he muttered.

Sherlock's eyebrows raised. "What?"

"No," John repeated, pulling his hand away. "You can't do that. You can't fucking do that!"

Sherlock felt John's eyes, still brimming with tears, blazing into him. He kept his gaze fast on John's face, searching every twitch, every pore.

"Come inside, we can't do this here," John ordered, running his fingers through his hair.

"What about _her_?" Sherlock protested.

"Mary's at work," John replied stiffly, before he turned and walked up to the house again. "You better be bloody well following me."

Sherlock ran his tongue over his lips, took a deep breath, and followed John into the house. His mind flicked back to the syringe in his desk as he walked. One quick injection of air. That's all it would take.

* * *

John slumped down in his armchair – the armchair that was most definitely not in 221B anymore – and Sherlock felt his gaze. "You bloody bastard," he said simply. "Sit."

Sherlock sat down on the sofa, perched on the edge of his seat with his back straight, head down as he stared at the carpet. He caught John's eyes as he sat - they were flashing with anger, hatred. Turning around was stupid. Sherlock should have just walked away. Let John continue his perfectly happy life. End his own empty one.

"Explain," John ordered, shattering Sherlock's morbid thoughts.

Sherlock took a deep breath, and explained. He told John everything, from the conversation on the rooftop to enlisting Lestrade's help as well as Molly's and Mycroft's, to finding and arresting the last of Moriarty's snipers. He omitted the repeated offences of his self-destruction. He couldn't tell John of the morphine and cocaine, or the razors and lighters, or anything else he had done to ruin his body while he'd been apart from John. He didn't tell John about his shredded heart. And John just stared at him in hateful silence all the while.

Sherlock looked up at the end of his explanation, just a glance, just enough to see John's face. "I'm sorry, John," he murmured.

"You're… you're sorry?" John echoed incredulously. "You're _sorry_? It's been three years, Sherlock. Three bloody years. You know what? It took me a year. I visited your grave on the anniversary of your death and I realised that you were _not _coming back. I realised I had spent a _year _sitting, rotting, in your flat, alone, because you were dead. I realised that I had died that day too. And I realised that you really were gone. I was walking home, and I had to stop because all of this just overwhelmed me, and I sat on a bench and broke down. I actually did that a lot that year. But, as I was sitting there, I was approached by a woman named Mary. She helped me. She helped me get over you and move on with my life. I fell in love with her. I managed to understand the fact that you were _never _coming back, and then… then you do, and all you can say to defend yourself is you're _sorry_?"

Sherlock sat in silence, just listening to John's voice, his eyes slipping closed. The world felt like it was spinning, John's voice the only thing that could break through the veil of thought drawn over the detective's sharp mind. "I have no defence," he replied weakly.

"No defence?" John repeated.

"No defence. I shouldn't have hurt you like that," Sherlock confirmed, eyes still closed. "I shouldn't have returned the way I did. Really, I shouldn't have returned at all. I interrupted your life again, I've hurt you, again. You were happy without me. I'm sorry."

John moistened his lips, gazing at Sherlock. "Why are your eyes closed?" he asked quietly.

"Because I need them closed," Sherlock murmured.

Sherlock heard John's sigh, could almost picture his exasperated expression. He was irritated at Sherlock's annoying habits and insufficient answers as well as angry and upset and hateful. He would be. "When was the last time you ate?"

His voice was soft. Kind, almost. Sherlock kept his eyes closed, rather surprised at John's tone. "Couple of days ago," he replied.

"And how long have you been awake?" John persisted. Sherlock heard him move forward in his chair.

"About seventy hours," Sherlock muttered, propping his elbows on his knees and resting his head in his hands. "Brain wouldn't shut down."

John swallowed audibly. "Have you got a case on?"

"No," Sherlock sighed. "No cases. Lestrade doesn't trust me anymore and no clients because everyone thinks I'm a fraud. And dead."

Sherlock heard John stand up, then felt the sofa beside him sink a little. John's smell filled his sensitive nose, his breath audible. John's hand on his shoulder. Just a small, very gentle touch. Sherlock remained still, just listening to John's breath.

"So, how long has it been since you caught the last one?" John asked, his tone gentle, but slightly tight, as if he was making an effort to be nice.

"Two months," Sherlock replied quietly. He felt the touch on his shoulder tighten just slightly.

"Then why haven't you told me between then and now?"

"I was going to," Sherlock admitted, hating the tone of John's voice – full of sadness and anger and pity all at the same time. "You remember the restaurant?"

"It was you," John breathed. "It wasn't a hallucination or anything. You really were there. You invited me. You were the person I wanted to see."

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed. "Yes, it was me."

"So why didn't you come over?" John asked, his voice tight again.

"Because," Sherlock sighed, pulling his head up and opening his eyes to find himself meeting John's deep cobalt gaze. "Because when I got there, I was about to go over, when this idiot Michael stopped and you invited him to sit down. I realised you had a life. You're happy now, you don't need me anymore, and I'd just be in the way. So I sat outside for a while, then I saw you pass. I followed you home and found out you don't live in 221B anymore. You've got a girlfriend. You bought a ring yesterday, so I'd say you practically have a fiancée. You have your work. The cases and excitement part of your life is over, apparently. You're happy to settle down with a job and a family. You don't need me anymore, don't want me. So I recently decided to just leave you with that. Not bother you anymore. You were fine with me being dead, so why should I pop up being alive?"

There was a gleam in John's eyes Sherlock couldn't quite place. One he'd never seen before, one he didn't entirely like. "Sherlock," John said sternly, his voice a little dry. "I moved in with Mary because I thought you were dead. I moved on from the cases because I thought you were dead. I bought a bloody ring yesterday because I thought you were dead. Everything I've done these past three years it's because I thought I'd never see you again, I'd never live that life. And if you don't think I need you, you'd be very wrong. Surely the fact that I've been seeing you everywhere, that I visit your grave once a week, that my nightmares have stopped being about Afghanistan and started being about you all show that I do need you. So don't you ever think I don't." Sherlock could see the tears brimming in his eyes again, hear the slight crack of his voice. But he pushed through it, blinking fast and keeping it down. He was a soldier. He wasn't going to show any weakness. Not that crying is weakness – John was just stubborn and was never one to cry.

"I need you too," Sherlock murmured. He didn't let himself say anything else. He couldn't. John's hand slid from his shoulder down to his forearm, as if to Sherlock's hand, but Sherlock winced, just slightly, and John's hand stopped.

"What?" John asked, his brow furrowed. "Why does that hurt?" Sherlock watched the movement of his face, the realisation grow in his eyes. "You haven't had a case for two months," he murmured, searching Sherlock's eyes. "What have you been doing to yourself?" Sherlock pulled his arm away, but John held it tighter. He winced again. John pulled open the button of his cuff and pulled the sleeve up. From his expression, Sherlock could tell he wasn't expecting something that bad.

Sherlock followed John's gaze to his arm, the pricked and scarred and burned skin, then closed his eyes again. "God, no," he heard John mutter. He could almost see John shaking his head. "No… oh, Sherlock…" Sherlock felt a slight tug on his wrist, and he turned slightly, eyes still closed. Then he was in John's arms, his head on his shoulder. "Why?" John breathed.

Sherlock slipped his arms around John's waist, his sleeve still rolled up, and felt tears spill from his own eyes. "I don't just need you, John," he said quietly, his breath shaking a little. "I love you."

Sherlock felt John tense a little, and he ducked his head down a little more. Stupid. That was stupid, why did he say that? But he couldn't take it back. He couldn't say anything more. Tears still dripped down his white cheeks silently. Then John pulled away.

"Sorry," Sherlock mumbled, his head down, but John's hand was on his face, tilting it up so Sherlock had to meet his gaze. Tears were spilling from John's sea-blue eyes.

"I'll come home, yes?" John said quietly. "I'll come home and I'll make sure you eat and sleep and make sure you never hurt yourself again, okay?"

Sherlock nodded mutely and sniffed.

"And Sherlock?" John added, the ghost of a smile at the corners of his mouth.

"Yes?" Sherlock breathed.

"I love you, too."

Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat, his eyes widening slightly. "What about Mary?" he asked.

"Screw Mary," John sighed, brushing away Sherlock's tears with his thumb. "I told you – everything I did these past three years were because I thought you were dead. I've always loved you. Mary helped me and loved me, so I convinced myself I loved her too."

The ghost smile brushed Sherlock's own lips. "You don't?"

"Only you," John replied. "Always you. You're an absolute cunt, but I love you." They chuckled slightly.

"I love you," Sherlock replied.

John pulled Sherlock's head forward slightly and pressed their lips together, gently, just for a moment, before pulling Sherlock back into his arms. Sherlock's arms slipped around his waist again, pulling him closer.

"I'll take care of you when you need it," John promised quietly.

"We can go on cases again," Sherlock smiled.

Sherlock heard John sigh, almost felt the smile cross John's own lips. He pulled his head around and kissed John again, John's arms still around his neck and Sherlock's around John's waist.

Sherlock's mind flicked back to the hotel room, to the syringe that lay in his draw. One quick injection of air. That's all it would take. One quick injection of air that would never be administered.


End file.
